


Realignment

by Minnie K (SarahProblem)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-01-01
Updated: 2004-01-01
Packaged: 2018-10-01 04:33:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10180826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SarahProblem/pseuds/Minnie%20K
Summary: A letter throws Hutch into emotional turmoil. With Starsky by his side, Hutch tries to work through his feelings about someone from his past, trying to decide whether to confront or welcome them. Only things are never that easy, or that simple, for either Starsky or Hutch when the person in question brings trouble on their heels.





	

  


 

**Realignment**

by **Minnie K.**

Starsky strode quickly up the steps of Venice Place, the smell of the sandwiches he'd picked up for their dinner making his stomach growl. Since this was going to be the first Friday night they'd had off in a while, both had decided to eat a quick dinner and put in some calls to see if any of their lady friends were free.

_I hope Hutch was able to catch Lucy and June before they left for the evening. They were a fun pair. Just our luck, though, that one or the other would be busy, if they're even talking to us anymore. I'm not too sure they were real thrilled with us being called back on duty the last time we went out. Hope that Hutchinson charm is working._

Starsky opened the door to Hutch's apartment and froze. Something felt wrong, although the apartment looked the same. It felt and sounded empty, yet Hutch's car was outside and the door unlocked.

"Anyone here?" he asked loudly.

"Starsk?" Hutch's voice, sounding tired and preoccupied, came from the greenhouse. "In here."

Starsky shut the door behind him, then walked over to the table and set the bag down by a pile of what looked like junk mail and two six-packs of beer that hadn't yet made it to the refrigerator.

"Dinner's here," Starsky said. "You want me to put this beer away, or are we taking it somewhere?"

Turning, he could see Hutch's profile through the screen that separated the greenhouse from the rest of the room. He was sitting on the bench seat, slouched over, head bowed.

_Something's wrong, and it's more than just being turned down for a date!_

The silence felt heavy, so Starsky walked over quietly. Hutch looked disheveled, his clothes still rumpled from the tussle they'd had out on the streets hours ago. His hair was tousled and looked as if Hutch had run a hand through it while upset or worried. His face looked drained and pinched, and Starsky could see he was studying a piece of paper he was holding.

Without looking up, Hutch moved from the center of the bench to the side, silently inviting Starsky to sit.

_Whatever's in that letter must've hit him hard. He almost looks sick._

Starsky sat down beside him, a feeling of dread forming in his gut. "Whatcha got?" he asked softly. "You okay?"

Hutch smiled a little, shaking his head as if it were of no consequence, but Starsky could see he was trying to pull himself together.

"Bad news?" Starsky asked carefully.

Hutch sighed then, and leaned back. "Bad news? I don't know. I think I'm afraid to find out."

Hutch handed him the letter.

There wasn't much to it. It read:

_Ken_ ,  
  
I know this is going to be a surprise to you, just as it is for me, but here it is. I know that you found out about me a long time ago, and can't say I could blame you if you've written me out of your family history. But I figure it's better late than never, as they say, so will leave it up to you.  
  
I'm here in Bay City, and if you want to meet up call the number below. If I'm not in, you can leave a message and I'll arrange a time and place for us to meet. I won't be in town for much longer, so you'll have to make up your mind soon.  
  
Roger W. Cummings  
555-2313

The name and number didn't mean anything to Starsky. "I don't understand," he admitted, looking for the answer in Hutch's face.

Hutch looked at the ceiling, crossing his arms in front of his chest, as if to hold himself together. "That's my father."

Starsky, feeling confused, didn't know what to say. "But your dad — Oh."

The memory of a snippet of conversation from their Academy days came back to Starsky. It had been a time when he and Hutch were still getting aquatinted, just starting to realize how much they liked and trusted each other. Details of families and childhoods had been passed back and forth, with Starsky sharing the story of his father's life and death, and Hutch sharing the quick secret that he was a Hutchinson only by adoption. Hutch had only given the barest facts about his family situation, and then had never referred to it again. It wasn't until much later that Starsky realized how few other people knew what Hutch had told him.

Barbara Coleman had become pregnant while very young, by a young man she'd left her family for. They had met secretly, because the roaming musician was not the sort her wealthy family would have approved of. They had run off together, as she'd believed, to get married. The marriage never took place, and the young man had abandoned her soon after the pregnancy was discovered.

Barbara, heartbroken, scared, and utterly penniless, had gone home to her family. Not long after Hutch was born, she married a man who adored her, Donald Hutchinson. Her family had approved of the young man, and he'd been more than willing to adopt her son as his own. Kenneth Hutchinson, and all but a few close family members, had grown up assuming Donald Hutchinson was Hutch's biological father. Anyone who had noticed that the young Hutchinson's features and coloring were unlike his father and younger sister's, had only to look at his willowy blonde mother to see whom he'd favored.

It was only by accident that a teenage Kenneth Hutchinson had stumbled across his original birth certificate and adoption records. All hell had broken loose between Hutch and his parents. They hadn't wanted to discuss it, but he wouldn't leave it alone until they told him the whole truth.

From what Starsky could tell, the discovery had come at a time when normal teenage strain between Hutch and his parents had been at its worst. He could only imagine how difficult those years had been, when trust was so important between a teenager and his parents. From what Starsky had learned through the years, it made him wonder if the differences between the two Hutchinson men had been exaggerated by the secret that had been discovered.

Starsky handed the letter to Hutch, wondering what he should say. He had known and loved his own father, treasuring the memories of the short time they'd had together. He knew Hutch loved the man who raised him, even if they were both stubborn and had issues to work out between them.

"Do you want to meet him?" Starsky asked, placing a hand on Hutch's knee and giving it a squeeze. "He doesn't seem to give you a lot of time to dwell on it, does he?"

Hutch closed his eyes and rubbed his face. "I don't know. I'm not sure what I'd say to him, or what I'd want to ask. Would I even know him when I see him?" Hutch opened his eyes and looked at Starsky.

The pain and confusion he saw made Starsky's gut clench in sympathy. "No pictures, huh?"

"Are you kidding?" Hutch smiled without humor. "He never existed, remember? At least as far as my parents are concerned."

"Never tried to look him up?"

Hutch shrugged. "No. I just...I don't know...never tried."

"What do you feel like doing?"

"I feel like pretending I never got it. Like I should call my parents and talk to them first. Maybe even like getting in the car and driving, tracking him down. I don't know, Starsk. I'm almost afraid to do anything."

"Why's that?" Starsky knew it was a hard question, but if Hutch could sort out his fears, maybe they'd know which direction he should go.

Finally, Hutch sighed and shook his head. "You know, I'm not sure. I guess there's a part of me that's afraid to find out I'm not who I think I am."

"That happened once already, didn't it? When you were a teenager," Starsky asked.

Hutch nodded. Starsky could see the hint of moisture in Hutch's eyes. "It was a shock that I'm not sure I've gotten over. I was so furious, felt so betrayed. They could have told me. It wasn't right that they kept from me who I was."

"Who your real father was, not who you were," Starsky suggested gently. "You are who you are, Hutch, no matter what name you carry. It's Donald who raised you, who went to a lot of work to claim you as his own. Would all that have changed if you'd known there was another man out there who'd given you your hair, your coloring, and your build?"

Starsky could see the tears forming in Hutch's eyes and how hard Hutch was fighting them. It was all he could do to keep his own eyes from filming over in sympathy.

"Aren't you always spouting off to me about how tired you are of people judging and labeling others by their looks alone?" Starsky asked. "He's only half the reason you look and sound like you do. But your insides are your own, babe. He doesn't have any more to do with who you are today than the man in the moon does. And your insides are beautiful, with or without knowing who made you."

Hutch quickly wiped his eyes, looking embarrassed as he chuckled. "Man, you must be hard up to waste that kind of line on me."

Starsky laughed, glad the heavy moment had passed. "Well, what can I say? Gotta keep in practice." He could see Hutch was more relaxed, but there was still a lot of tension and uncertainty behind his eyes. "Besides, you know both your parents love you, even if you don't always agree on much."

"Maybe. I guess you're right," Hutch said. "My father is, and always was, Donald Hutchinson. That was hard to see as a teenager, and sometimes I remember more of the anger and feelings of betrayal than the good times."

"I've just met your dad once, Hutch, but it seems to me you both share more than a little sheer pig-headed stubbornness when you believe in something. If you ask me, I think you and your father have been knocking heads over this matter of him wanting you in the family business, and you wanting to live your own life, because you two are a lot alike. If he didn't love ya, he wouldn't want you around as much as he does."

"I know." The words were said quietly. Hutch did believe he was loved. "All these years he's been pushing me to come back and work with him. Part of me wishes I could've done that for him. But it just wouldn't have worked, then or now. I've always loved him."

"I think he knows that, Hutch."

"Does he?" Hutch grimaced. "Seems like after all the arguments we had when I found out about...my birth certificate...put a wedge between us. And there was all the arguing about my coming out here for college, and my course choices. We haven't really had a lot of good talks in all these years. My being a cop scares them both. I can understand that." Hutch turned an embarrassed smile Starsky's way. "Can't say I'd be thrilled if Kiko or Molly wanted to be a cop. We both know what kind of life this is."

"So, what do you think you wanna do?"

After a moment Hutch shrugged. "How can I not meet with him, Starsk? Maybe it's the cop in me, but I know it'll eat at me if I don't make that call. I'll always wonder."

"Probably."

"Could be opening a Pandora's box, though. What if he's got a family, other kids? I don't know how I'd feel about that."

"Take what good out of it you can, Hutch. If you can find more family to love, to care about, then maybe that'll be good for both you _and_ them. After all, you and your sister are pretty close, even if you do live across the country from each other. For the bad parts..."Starsky shrugged and smiled slightly. "You don't have to go alone, you know, if you don't want to."

"Thanks, buddy." Hutch patted Starsky's thigh quickly and got up. He walked into the apartment, tossing the letter on the bed as he continued on to the kitchen. He pulled open the refrigerator door, ignoring the sack of sandwiches on the table. "I think I'll need one of those beers before I make that call."

"Dinner, too?" Starsky asked hopefully, his stomach once again aware it was past dinner time. "If you catch him in, it may be a while before we can stop to eat."

Hutch turned to look uncertainly at the bag, but shrugged and reached in for the beers. "Might as well, I guess. Maybe I'll find out I'm hungry, after all."

Starsky turned on Hutch's small television set, and they listened to the news as they sat at the table. Neither of them said much, and Starsky noticed that, although Hutch ate, his mind seemed to be elsewhere.

He had eaten only half of his sandwich before he pushed it away. He got up and headed for the bed and the letter. Starsky continued to eat, although he, too, found he had little appetite. He could hear Hutch settle on the bed and pull the phone to him, and a moment later Hutch was dialing.

The conversation was too low to hear, but Starsky could tell by the tone of Hutch's voice that Cummings wasn't in, and he was leaving a message. Starsky, finished with his meal, started folding the waxed paper, giving Hutch a few minutes to himself.

"I've got to go talk to him," Hutch announced, getting up suddenly from the bed.

"He may not like you taking him by surprise," Starsky cautioned, sitting on his chair backwards in order to watch Hutch better. "Maybe you should give him some time to call back."

"I don't think I can wait on him," Hutch admitted nervously, running his hand through his hair as he started to pace. "He's disappeared once; what's to stop him from taking off again? I just...I guess I just need to get it over with. I already feel like I'm going to jump out of my skin."

Starsky smiled. "You want some company?"

Hutch thought about it for a moment. "I don't know. Maybe not when I talk to him...but I guess it wouldn't hurt to have you around to keep my head on straight." Starsky saw confusion in Hutch's face. "Truthfully, there's a part of me that wants to beat the shit out of him for what he did to my mother, and another part that wants to take him in and try to make up for lost time. Guess I might need help finding some middle ground."

"Well...it cuts into my Friday night..." Starsky said with a smile. "But since I've got nothin' else to do, guess I might as well."

Hutch nodded his thanks. "You mean you're nosy, and it'll save you time by not having to drag it out of me tomorrow."

"Well, that, too. How do I know you're not gonna leave out the good parts?" Starsky winked at him. "So what's the first step?"

"He's at one of those rat-traps down on Raytown and Trenton. The clerk wouldn't give me any information on the phone, so I think a face-to-face might get me a little more information." Hutch turned to the door, digging in his pocket for his keys. "Your car or mine?"

"Mine. It'll give you time to think." Starsky got up and followed Hutch. "Not the best part of town," he mumbled to himself since Hutch was already halfway down the stairs. "About the only thing down there are hookers, addicts, and porn shops. Doesn't sound like the ideal place to meet your dad for the first time."

Starsky locked the door behind him, tension starting to ball up the sandwich in his stomach. "I sure hope you don't have your hopes set too high, buddy. This could get really ugly."

 

***

 

Hutch sat back and watched the crowd on the street as they slowly followed the traffic. They were in the older part of town, where once in a while he could get a glimpse of the early beauty in the last of the brick and stone buildings that lined both sides of the street. This Friday night, the crowds that flowed up and down the sidewalks were more interested in the bars, adult bookstores, theaters, and strip clubs than the buildings that housed them.

He knew his mind was wandering and he felt strangely numb, barely hearing Starsky's frustrated mumbling at the heavy traffic and the careless jaywalkers that slowed them down.

_I don't know how to feel,_ he realized. _When I got the letter I was shocked, then mad. And, I guess, scared, too. Now I just feel...blank. Maybe that's for the best, because I don't know if this is a good thing or not. How do I know Cummings isn't just going to screw up my life? How do I know he isn't here because he wants something from me?_

Hutch was startled out of his thoughts as Starsky said something and tapped his arm for attention. "What?"

"I asked you if you want out here," Starsky said with exaggerated patience. "I've been tellin' you that there's no parking for blocks. This is the hotel, didn't you notice?"

"No," Hutch admitted sheepishly as he read the sign over the front door of the building they were stopped in front of. "I didn't. You going to circle for a spot?"

Starsky shrugged as a car behind them honked loudly. He stuck his arm out and waved them around. "Figured you might as well go in and see what you can get from the clerk. I'll tour the block a couple times and catch up. Just don't go anywhere without me."

Hutch got out just as the car behind the Torino honked again. Starsky pulled away and Hutch started up the stairs, trying not to notice the filth and stench of a place old and not well cared for.

The lobby was a large open area filled with thrift-store furniture. There was a mix of people lingering there — some of them intent on those they were with, and others who looked to be in a world of their own. Hutch studied the men as he made his way to the clerk, a part of his mind wondering if Cummings was in sight.

"I'm looking for someone," Hutch said, as he leaned on the counter. "Roger Cummings. I called before and left him a message. Has he picked it up?"

The clerk looked up from his paper, obviously bored, and reached over to pick up a folded piece of paper from behind the counter. Hutch could see Cummings' name written on the outside. "Does it look like it?" he asked sarcastically.

"Look," Hutch said with forced casualness as he pulled out his wallet. "I really need to find this guy. You wouldn't happen to know where he hangs out, would you?" He pulled out a ten and folded it in his palm, allowing the clerk a glimpse of it.

The clerk gave him a skeptical look. "You're not lookin' for trouble, are you?"

"No trouble." Hutch gave the man a small smile and flattened his palm and the bill on the counter so no one could see it. "Just want to visit."

"Sure you do," the clerk said, entirely unconvinced. "Look, he's a good tenant. Pre-pays the weekly rate and keeps quiet. As long as he's been here, I've never had a complaint. Can't afford to lose a tenant like that because I can't keep my mouth shut."

"He's been here long?" Hutch asked with surprise. He assumed from his letter that Cummings was new in town.

The clerk shrugged and looked at Hutch without comment. Holding his wallet close to his chest, he pulled out another ten and covered both bills with his hand.

The clerk looked around quickly to see who was watching, then leaned across the counter. He tugged at the visible end of the bills and gave Hutch a sour look when he didn't let them go. His tone was grudging. "He's been here about six weeks. Don't know much about him 'cept he's got a regular gig down the street at the Sunrise Club. He usually plays nights 'til closing, and I'm gone long before he comes back in."

"What does he do at the club?"

"A musician, I guess. Always carries around a guitar case. Hardly ever see him without it. And that's all I know."

_A musician? I should have remembered that. It's one of the few things Mom told me about him. It was the way he'd been making his living when they met._

"Not much for twenty bucks," Hutch said with an aggrieved tone. He glared at the clerk, looking for signs that there was more information for sale. He didn't see any. "I figure you owe me."

"Didn't say I had much. You're the one who wants to know so badly." The clerk tugged on the ends of the bills again, and Hutch reluctantly let them slip out from under his hand.

Back outside in the cool of the night, Hutch stood for a moment and surveyed the street. Traffic was still thick and the sidewalks were crowded, the air reverberating with bits of audible music from the local businesses and clubs, mixing with the blare of various radio stations to create a wild jumble of noise that seemed to make the area hum. Looking down the street, Hutch could barely pick out the sign of the Sunrise Club. It was a small neon affair that did little to compete with the other larger signs around it.

Glancing around, he caught sight of the Torino, parked half a block to his right. Starsky was sitting behind the wheel, leaning back and watching the traffic with his eyes on the rearview mirror. Hutch walked up to the car and leaned on the passenger door, his head through the open window. "He's working down at the Sunrise Club. It's down the street a ways."

Starsky's eyes searched his face, looking uncertain at the news. "You wanna go and see him at work? He may not have time to talk to you, you know. Might be better off if you just let him call you back."

"I need to see him, Starsky." Hutch felt as if he were going to jump out of his skin. "Could you wait, if it were your father?"

"No, guess not," Starsky said, shaking his head and giving him a small smile. "So, you gonna walk down? Should I stay here and wait or — ?"

"Lock it up. You might as well come in with me."

Hutch backed up to the sidewalk and waited while Starsky got out of the Torino and locked it, feeling as if his stomach were slowly twisting into a fatal knot.

The Sunrise Club was about three blocks away. As soon as Hutch opened the door, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer hit him in the face, reminding him of many other clubs he'd visited while on duty. With Starsky behind him, he walked through the dark foyer and entered the main room, alert for anyone who might look familiar.

The club itself didn't seem to be anything special, but was fairly well filled for a Friday night. There were several people at the bar, and the small cheap-looking tables and wall booths were mostly occupied. In the far corner, there was a small stage where four musicians in casual dress were playing some sort of generic lounge music over a cheap stereo system that didn't do much for the quality. There was no room for dancing, and the music itself was more a background for the quiet conversations going on than it was the main attraction.

Hutch moved closer to the stage and felt his eyes drawn to the man playing the acoustic guitar. _Is that him? He's got the right coloring, I guess. And the right age. There's something about his face..._

Wearing a worn tweed jacket over a white shirt, a faded blue tie around his neck, the man playing a guitar seemed oblivious to the crowd. Even seated, Hutch could tell he was tall and broad-shouldered, his large hands caressing the guitar tenderly as he played, his ash blond head bowed over it in concentration. The man nodded to himself as he played, the cigarette in his mouth weaving a thin tendril of smoke through the air as his whole body seemed to keep time with the music. The man didn't look up, but there was something about the set of his eyes, the curl of his lips, Hutch felt he knew.

"You think that's him?" Starsky's excited voice came from behind Hutch's shoulder. "He kinda looks like you. And, hell, Hutch, he's got your hands!"

"I...I don't know," Hutch mumbled, his throat almost as tight as his stomach.

"Let's ask the bartender. Then if that's him, maybe you can talk to him during a break or somthin'."

"Okay," Hutch said, eyes riveted to the man with the guitar. It wasn't until Starsky's hand on his arm pulled him backward that he found he could actually move.

The bartender reluctantly confirmed Cummings' identity. In reply to Starsky's question, they found out the band was due for a break in twenty minutes. Starsky ordered two beers then carried them over to a back table.

Hutch felt as if he were frozen, unable to do anything but follow Starsky's lead. They sat shoulder to shoulder, positioned so they could see the band. Hutch found himself staring at Cummings, trying to make out as many details as he could from across the room.

"Maybe I should leave," Starsky said quietly, after a few minutes had passed.

"What? Why?"

"This is a family thing, Hutch. You're going to meet him for the first time!"

"And you might as well stick around," Hutch insisted, toying with his glass of untasted beer. "He's just going to be on a break, so he won't have long to talk. We can arrange to meet later."

"If you're sure..." Starsky elbowed him gently, leaning closer. "You gonna be okay? You're looking a little pale."

"I'm afraid I'm going to be sick," Hutch admitted reluctantly. "My stomach is in knots. I can't remember the last time I felt this nervous."

"'Cause you don't feel like you're in control," Starsky said gently. "And you're not, not really. He's made the first step, and you're still catching up. Maybe you need to think about what you want to ask him. Make a plan of it, like you're plannin' on interrogating — "

"Starsky..." Hutch sighed in frustration. "I can't talk to him like he's a suspect."

"I _know_ that. All I'm saying is that if you have a plan, know what you wanna ask, then you'll feel like you've got some control. Then, maybe you won't be so worried about what he thinks of you."

Hutch was about to argue when he realized Starsky was right. He was worried about more than answers to questions he hadn't yet had a chance to ask.

_He's right. I am afraid of what he's going to think of me. How much does he know about me? Obviously, he's got my name and address. But what else does he know?_ Hutch took a tentative sip of his beer, hoping it would help unravel the knot of tension. _He left my mother long before I was born. He's the one that hurt people, abandoned them. So why do I feel like **I'm** the one who's going to have to pass muster?_

When the music stopped and the band started putting their instruments away, hardly anyone else in the club seemed to notice. Starsky stood up, picking up his beer. "I'll go sit at the bar. Take your time, Hutch. I'll be here."

Hutch stood up and nodded his thanks, seeing the smile of encouragement on Starsky's face. Starsky punched him playfully on the arm. "Go get 'em, pal."

The walk through the crowd seemed to take forever. As he neared the stage, Hutch watched as Cummings squatted down to place the guitar lovingly in its case. Yet Hutch could see the tension in the broad shoulders and wondered if Cummings had noticed him in the audience.

_Does he recognize me? Has he seen me before?_

Hutch stood at the edge of the stage and cleared his throat, hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking. "Excuse me. I'm here — "

"You shouldn't've come," Cummings said without looking up, his voice almost too low for Hutch to hear. He turned his head only slightly as he fiddled with the latches of his guitar case. Cummings' eyes, such a pale blue they almost looked white in the club's lighting, raked over Hutch quickly, then darted around the room as if he were ashamed to be seen talking to him. His voice was rough and impatient. "I didn't invite you here."

" _You're_ the one who sent the letter," Hutch snapped with angry surprise.

Cummings stood and stepped off the stage, not looking at Hutch. As he pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and started to light one, he mumbled under his breath, "Not here. In the back." Cummings picked up the guitar case and started toward the back of the club, where there was a door that led to a small hallway.

_Just who does he think he is?_ Hutch found his nervousness turning to irritation as they made their way through the smoky room. _He sent **me** the note, now he's ashamed to be seen with me?_

Hutch followed Cummings down the short hallway, past the restroom, and into what looked to be a small storage room. Cummings turned and shut the door behind them, his eyes scrutinizing Hutch, and his face twisting as if he disliked what he saw.

Hutch stared back. While they shared the same height and basic coloring, Hutch found himself searching Cummings for more familiar features. Cummings was broader and thicker than Hutch, a man who'd carry a lot of muscle if he'd trained for it. The fine dark blond hair was collar-length, pushed back behind his ears. His face was square, and his prominent cheekbones gave him a lean look that his body belied. Wear lines and crow's feet that surrounded the bright eyes spoke of many hard years, and the harsh almost white-blue of his eyes now seemed to burn through Hutch in anger.

"You shouldn't've come down here," Cummings snapped. "You were only supposed to call my motel room. Now I just have to tell you to your face that I've changed my mind."

Hutch felt as if he'd been slapped. "Changed your mind?" The nervousness that had hold of his chest was quickly turning to anger. He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. "What the _hell_ do you mean, you've changed your mind?"

"It was a mistake to send you that letter," Cummings growled. His eyes focused on something behind Hutch, as if he could no longer look at him. He started to open the door. "I don't know what the hell I was thinking. You need to leave, and stay away."

Hutch could only stand there, frozen, not sure how he was supposed to feel or react. Cummings, guitar case in hand, stormed out into the hall. Hutch clinched his fists, fighting the urge to grab him and throw him up against the wall. Anything to stop Cummings from walking away from him once again.

_That son-of-a-bitch!_ Hutch slapped the door jamb hard, the pain barely registering as his mind reeled. _What am I supposed to do? Go after him? Stop him and make him talk to me? Why the hell did he even contact me if he didn't want to see me? Who the hell does he think he is?_

A voice at the back of Hutch's mind taunted him with the sad truth. _He's the man who gave you half of yourself, who decided you weren't worth his time, that's who._

Hutch started forward, then stopped, watching Cummings as he wove his way through the crowd and out the door. He felt frozen, and wasn't sure how long he would have stayed that way if Starsky hadn't gripped his arm and squeezed gently.

"You okay?" Starsky was standing next to him, looking at him with concern. "What happened in there? You didn't talk very long."

"I guess he never planned to talk at all," Hutch said sharply. "Bastard doesn't want anything to do with me."

"What?" Starsky looked surprised and glanced at the entrance. "He sent that letter just to blow you off?"

"Looks like it." Hutch pushed past Starsky, heading for the door. He needed to get outside, to get away from the crowd.

"Hutch?"

Hutch couldn't answer. He could only push his way through the doors and take a deep breath of the night air. His eyes scanned both sides of the street, looking for a glimpse of Cummings in the crowd. There was no sign of him.

He found himself moving faster and faster, pushing past people and dodging cars on the move. He had no idea what he was going to do, no idea what he was going to say. But he couldn't let his past slip away from him. If he could only catch up...

 

***

 

Starsky followed quickly as Hutch made a beeline to the hotel. He couldn't tell if Cummings was ahead of them, but he could see from the way Hutch pushed through the crowds that he was hoping to find Cummings along the way.

_Damn him!_ Starsky fumed inside, careful to keep his real feelings off his face. _It would've been better if the son-of-a-bitch had never sent that stupid letter! How the hell could he walk away from someone like Hutch?_

As Hutch got to the front steps of the hotel, he suddenly stopped and looked around wildly. Starsky put a hand on his shoulder to remind him he wasn't alone.

"He didn't come this way," Hutch said angrily. Starsky could feel his tension and anxiety, how he was posed at any moment to give chase again. "I would've caught up with him if he had! Damn it! He must've ducked into an alley, or gone the other way. We'll need to backtrack — "

"He's _not_ a suspect, Hutch," Starsky said quietly, taking Hutch's elbow. He turned him slightly so Hutch would look at him. Hutch's eyes had a frantic, determined look that made Starsky's stomach twist. He lowered his voice. "You can't corner him and get what you want out of him. If he doesn't want to talk to you, forcing him won't do you any good."

For a moment Starsky thought Hutch was going to shake him off. He could see it in the stormy eyes that didn't want to give up the chase, the anger Starsky could tell was keeping Hutch from having to deal with some kind of new hurt he'd accumulated. Whatever had gone down between the two had been bad.

Starsky kept his expression soft as he met the angry, frustrated glare. After a moment he could feel the tension drain from Hutch's arm, see his eyes go from determination to tired acceptance that, this time, he couldn't react as a cop. Suddenly, Hutch's energy seemed to drain.

"I guess that's it then." It was only a whisper, as Hutch looked forlornly at the rundown hotel, as if still looking for some hope. "I don't even know what room he's in, or if he'll ever go back to it. He doesn't ever want to see me again, anyway..."

Starsky gritted his teeth as he fought his own anger at the pain and confusion in Hutch's voice. _He doesn't deserve this. No one does. Why couldn't've Cummings just stayed a ghost and left Hutch alone?_

"C'mon, partner," Starsky said gently, pushing Hutch toward the Torino. "Time to go home. We're both tired, and maybe tomorrow it'll all look different."

"Only if I can forget tonight," Hutch said with defeat as he followed Starsky's lead.

"Not forget," Starsky said chidingly, pushing Hutch toward the passenger side of the car. "Put into perspective, Hutch. We'll get you tucked in, and a sound night's sleep will help."

_I hope,_ Starsky thought worriedly, as Hutch seemed to slide into the car like a puppet with its strings cut. _Because I don't know how to help you, buddy. I guess we'll both have to take it one day at a time._

 

***

 

Starsky sighed as he tossed the file back onto his desk, wishing he'd had more sleep. Dobey had rousted them both at Venice Place early that morning to start an investigation into the death of Abner Vindell. Vindell, the owner of "Vindell's Transport Services" and one of the high-profile members in the city, had been found dead near his car, knifed, his wallet missing. Apparently, he'd been leaving a bar on the seedier side of town. He and Hutch had visited the scene and had watched the sun come up as the forensics team gathered what information they could. Now at 10:00 in the morning, he felt like he'd already put in a full day, yet they'd just started.

Starsky leaned back in his chair and stretched noisily, watching Hutch from the corner of his eye. Hutch was on the phone, talking to someone from Vindell's household. He looked worn out, and Starsky knew he hadn't gotten much rest the night before. After Hutch's meeting with Cummings, they had gone back to Venice Place and drunk a few beers while supposedly watching television. Hutch had acted like nothing happened, and no matter what opening Starsky left for him, he had avoided the subject.

_Guess he's got to deal with it in his own way. He probably doesn't know what he feels about it all. It's one thing to know you have a biological father somewhere out there, and it's another to come face to face with someone who doesn't want anything to do with you._

Hutch muttered something into the phone and took a note as he hung up. "That was Vindell's housekeeper, Mrs. Van Cleave. She has the weekend off, which was why no one was at the house. She confirms that Abner was a widower, and his kids are married and out of state. His daughter lives in Texas, one son in Nevada, and the other in Minnesota. She's agreed to officially identify the body before his kids get here."

"How'd they hear about it so soon? The morning papers haven't even had time to catch up."

"Mrs. Van Cleave heard it on the news and called his kids right away. She thought it would be kinder if they heard it from her," Hutch said with a frown. "I wish she hadn't. Sounded to me like she couldn't wait to break the bad news."

"There's probably no easy way to be told a loved one's been killed, whether it's from a housekeeper or a uniformed cop at your door." Starsky leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "We'll have to talk to them when they come in, see if they know anything that would make this a premeditated murder and not a botched robbery."

Hutch reached over and took the file from Starsky. He opened it and looked at the photos again. "It doesn't have that feel, does it? Vindell's worth a lot of money, so he could afford a lot better atmosphere for a night out. Then there're the bar employees who assumed he was waiting for someone who never showed up. They say he was sitting in the bar all night, checking his watch and looking nervous. When they left, they said he was sitting in his car in the lot."

"Sounds to me like he was meeting someone." Starsky leaned over to touch the back of the photo Hutch was looking at. "I think it might have been a set-up. One wound in the back. He wasn't attacked getting into his car from the bar, so he must've gotten out and then was attacked before he could get back in. Then perp turned him over and went through his pockets to make it look like a mugging."

"So, the first step is to see if we can find out who he was supposed to meet and why," Hutch said. "Mrs. Van Cleave is waiting for us to take her to the morgue. She seems to have a great need to make herself indispensable, so we'll see just how much she really knows about her employer." Hutch stood up, taking the file with him. "I'll let Dobey know what we've got so far."

"I'll go down to records and see if I can get them to pull up anything about Vindell," Starsky said. "I don't expect much, but maybe he'll have a parking ticket or a few lawsuits under his belt that'll give us a clue. I'll meet you at the car."

Starsky watched as Hutch gave him a tired wave in acknowledgement, then turned toward Dobey's door.

_It won't hurt to see if I can find something on Roger Cummings as well. Hutch may not want to know anything about him now, but he probably will one day. If this guy's gonna be trouble, I want to be prepared._

 

***

 

Hutch sat back in the overstuffed chair, being careful not to jostle his full cup of tea. Mrs. Van Cleave was a tall, thin lady who had met them at the door in her Sunday best. It had taken them a few minutes to convince her they were actually detectives, since they didn't seem to be dressed the way she'd expected.

Once she let them inside, Hutch couldn't help his amusement at the displeased frown she gave them every time she caught a glimpse of the Torino through her front curtains. It was clear she didn't appreciate such a wild looking car in her neat and orderly domain. But behind the serious exterior, Hutch could tell she was still shocked and saddened by her employer's murder and was doing her best not to seem weak or break down in front of them.

_Reminds me of my Great Aunt Elsa,_ Hutch thought. _She always went to great pains to be dignified and proper, forever cutting down those of her family she disapproved of with a glare. Hard on the outside, but inside was a well-hidden marshmallow. If either Mom or Grandmother had ever discovered that Elsa used to slip me candy or money on every visit, they'd probably have been beyond shocked._

Triggered by the uncomfortable meeting with his father, Hutch found himself dwelling on a lot of his relatives. There were those like Great Aunt Elsa, who had had a hard tongue but a warm heart, and who never seemed to treat him any better or worse than his cousins or his sister. Then there were those like his mother's brother, Stephen, and some of his cousins on his adoptive father's side. Early on he'd remembered feeling distant from them, as if they were never interested in talking to him or getting to know him. For a while he'd felt alienated from everyone he'd known as family.

_It was a shock finding out about my true origins after all those years. No wonder I kept seeing the disapproval in everyone's face; I kept looking for it. Even now, how can I know if it they would have acted differently if I'd been born a Hutchinson, and if Donald had been my biological father?_

He'd felt torn last night, between hunting down Roger Cummings and calling his parents. A part of him felt that he'd somehow betrayed Donald, the man who raised him, just by wanting to meet Cummings.

"More tea, Detective Hutchinson?"

Hutch started, realizing he'd drifted off and missed part of the conversation. It must have been obvious, because Mrs. Van Cleave was once again looking at him with disapproval.

"Uh...no, thank you. I'm still fine here," he answered quickly, sitting up straighter in the chair and hoping he hadn't sloshed any of his tea while he'd been distracted.

"Now, Mrs. Van Cleave," Starsky said, pulling her attention away from Hutch. "You've been kind enough to give us the background on the family and your length of employment, but was there anything about Mr. Vindell's personal life or his business dealings that seemed out of place or unusual?"

She looked at him, then down at her hands, frowning. She seemed uncertain and uncomfortable. "As I told you, Detective Starsky, I did not pry into my employer's affairs. He was a widower, and his private life was his own. I do not carry tales."

"We can understand that, ma'am," Hutch volunteered. "As his housekeeper, you had a position of great responsibility. But at this point, any information might be helpful to our investigation. I think Mr. Vindell would appreciate all you've done so far, and I think he'd understand your talking to us."

He gave her his best smile and noticed she was twisting the napkin on her lap, a sign he took to mean she was very torn about what was proper in this case.

Starsky apparently noticed it, too, and leaned forward to say very gently, "It would help his children if they could put their father to rest knowing that everything possible was being done to find the truth."

She seemed to deflate in her seat, looking tired and defeated. "I know you're right, but it seems so...so common to relate the details." She sighed. "He didn't deserve to die that way, and his children deserve justice as well."

"Was Mr. Vindell having any problems at work that you know of? Did he seem upset, or mention anything that was bothering him?" Starsky asked.

"No, not that I know of. In fact, in some ways, he seemed very happy with his work. He always seemed to have a glow about him when he felt he'd made a good business move, such as coming out ahead on a contract." The woman shook her head. "But I didn't know much about his transport business. I know he dealt with shipping, both by sea and on land, but he never really talked to me about the day-to-day dealings. But...his private life did seem to have changed. I'm not sure how that would help you, though."

"If nothing else, it might explain why he was out last night, and why he was found where he was," Hutch explained, trading a glance with Starsky.

"Mr. Vindell...well...he'd been a widower for about ten years," she started hesitantly. "His wife died in a car accident. He was devastated by her death and didn't date much for several years. His children were in their early and late teens, and he didn't seem inclined until they moved out or married. He used to bring nice women home. I remember when he'd have me stay late and cook up some of my special dinners, and I'd get to meet them. All nice ladies, although he couldn't seem to find another love, and after a while would seem to drift to someone new."

Her eyes took on a far-away look and she paused. Starsky cleared his throat to get her attention. "But that changed?"

"About a year or so ago, I'd guess. I noticed that he didn't seem to be dating much. If he was, he didn't seem interested in having dinner at home anymore, let alone asking me to stay and cook something special. I'd fix him dinners and find them untouched the next morning. The clothing he'd leave for me to take to the dry cleaners started smelling like cigarette smoke and liquor." Her face showed her disapproval. "It didn't take me long to realize he'd taken to hanging out at clubs and...places of lower quality."

"What kind of places?" Hutch asked.

Mrs. Van Cleave's face colored, and she looked down at the carpet. "He would sometimes have matchbooks, cocktail napkins, or even receipts in his pockets with names of the establishments on them. Since I had to empty all his pockets before doing his laundry, I couldn't help but see them."

"We understand that," Starsky said gently. "You took care of his house, and him, so naturally you'd see things he might have liked to have kept private. Can you tell us where he was going on those nights he went out?"

"He was going to some of the places down at Royal Court and Connor. What, in my day, used to be called the 'Red Light District'."

Hutch looked at Starsky with surprise. They had been to Royal Court just the night before — to find Hutch's father.

"Do you think you could write down the various places he'd visited, or better yet, would those items still be at his home?" Starsky asked, his glance at Hutch demonstrating that he, too, had caught the coincidence. "And do you know of anyone else who may have a house key?"

"Some of the receipts and such may still be in the trash," she said uncertainly. She then looked as if a sudden disquieting thought had struck her. "And as far as I know, I'm the only one who has a key to the house. It was my job to let in anyone who needed access and to keep an eye on them. Do I have to turn my key in? I still have some of my own items in the house."

"The search warrant is on the way," Hutch admitted. "But we wanted to talk to you first. It usually helps to get a lay of the land, if we can, before we go to a person's home. We would like your key, if you don't mind. I'm sure you'll be able to retrieve your items later," Hutch said with a smile.

He pulled out his wallet and removed one of their cards. Taking out a pen, he wrote Dobey's extension number under their own. "I understand his children are coming in from out of town. If they contact you, could you give them our number? I'm sure they'd like to keep in touch with the Department, and they can best do that by talking to our captain."

Mrs. Van Cleave gave them a sad smile as she took the card. "Thank you. I'll be picking them up at the airport and will pass the information along. I've been with the family for so long, I feel like I owe it to Mr. Vindell to help any way I can."

"We appreciate that," Starsky said as he stood up. "Give us a call if you think of anything that might help."

 

***

 

As they sat at the stoplight, Starsky noticed the same preoccupied look on Hutch's face he'd been carrying all day. Their search of the house had been swift, since they really had very few ideas of what to look for. They had taken what mail had been on Vindell's desk, a photograph of him to use in their investigations, his bank records, and the few scrap pieces of paper from the trash that could have come from his pockets.

Starsky remembered the look on Hutch's face when one of the items had turned out to be a cocktail napkin from the Sunrise Club.

_Damn, this will be awkward if we end up running into Cummings. No wonder Hutch seems so withdrawn. He's probably trying to brace himself for another run-in._

Starsky had debated whether to split up at this point and see if he could get Hutch to track down some of Vindell's employees. Since it was a Saturday, the office would be closed and company records would be hard to track down. And since the only real clue seemed to point to Vindell's private life, he didn't think he could make a good enough case for them to cover different angles.

Neither one of them spoke as they pulled up in front of an old theater that had certainly seen better days. Starsky looked at the name of the theater, which matched a ticket stub they had found at Vindell's house.

"Well, we won't have to go too far to find one of the places he hung out," Starsky said, looking over the front of the building. It looked to be one of the older movie theaters in the city, and one of the few in this part of town that still played anything that wasn't X-rated.

Hutch leaned forward to get a better look at it through the windshield. "They're not going to last too long around here," he said. "They're running matinees, but there are more cars parked in front of the closed shops than in front of this place. No one seems to be interested in family films anymore, especially around here. I'll bet this place will be eaten by the wolves pretty soon."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed. "Makes you wonder why Vindell would come all the way down here to see a movie he could see in a hundred nicer places in the city. So, where do we go first? Wanna try here?"

Hutch frowned. "I don't think we'll get much from this place, Starsk. Might as well hit the Sunrise Club and see if any of the regulars recognize him. If he was a regular customer there, we might be able to prove he went to that other bar for a meeting, rather than a place he chose to hang out."

Starsky bit his lip, not asking the question he wanted to ask.

Hutch seemed to hear it anyway. "I'm _fine_ ," he insisted. "If I run into him, then I run into him. No problem."

_That you'll admit to,_ Starsky thought as he got out of the car. _I know you better than that. I hope we don't run into the guy. I'm not sure he'd like **my** reactions._

The club was a couple of blocks from where they'd parked; the hotel Cummings was staying at only half a block the other way. _It sure is a small world. I can't remember the last time we had to come to this part of town. Now we're here twice in two days._

The club was open for the day, and Starsky wondered if the few cars out front meant they were going to have trouble finding anyone who had seen Vindell. Weekend clientele weren't necessarily the same as the weeknight ones.

The bar was mostly empty, with a couple of people sharing a table in the corner, and one person at the bar. Even so, the air was dull with stale smoke, and Starsky wondered if the place ever got opened up to air out.

The bartender wasn't the one on duty last night, and probably just had the day shift. He looked like he was barely old enough to have a drink himself and didn't seem that interested in serving them as they walked up to the bar. He seemed to be more interested in doing a crossword puzzle and the tune on the jukebox than the fact he had customers.

Starsky whistled to get the bartender's attention. As the man sauntered toward them, he and Hutch leaned close so they could keep the conversation low.

"What can I get you guys?"

"What's your name?" Hutch asked, giving him a sweet smile as he slid his open badge on the bar top where only the bartender could see it.

The bartender immediately backed up a step, and Starsky thought he saw signs of guilt in the young man's eyes. "Why? I didn't do anything?"

"Then you won't mind us having your name, right?" Hutch asked. "Innocent men don't have any problems talking to cops, do they?"

The kid looked at them nervously. "Yeah, okay. I'm Eddie Drake."

"Well, Eddie, I'm Starsky and this is Hutchinson. Maybe you can do my partner and me a favor." Starsky slid the picture of Abner Vindell next to Hutch's badge. "We're wondering if you've ever seen this guy in here. Could he be one of your regulars?"

Eddie's face scrunched up as he stared at the photo. "I'm not really sure. I'm just on duty 'til seven most nights unless they need extra help, but I think I have seen him around a few times. Why?"

"Don't worry, it wasn't a complaint about you, if that's what you're worried about," Starsky said. "You remember the last time he was here? Was he here to see anyone?"

Eddie looked around as if checking to make sure no one was watching. "I'm not sure he ever met anyone. I don't pay that much attention, especially at the end of my shift."

"So you noticed he'd arrive around six or so?" Starsky asked, hopeful that Eddie could remember more with careful prodding. "Sat at the bar? At a table? Put money in the jukebox?"

Eddie scrunched up his face again. "Well, he came in around six-thirty a couple of times. I think Thursday was the last night he was here, but he'd come in a few times before that." He pointed to a table closest to, but to the left of the bandstand. "He'd sit there and watch the band set up. Their first set is at seven, and he seemed to like to catch them when they started. Sometimes John would sit with him."

A light bulb seemed to light up over Eddie's head. "Hey, that's right! You can ask John. He'd know the guy!" Then, just as fast, Eddie's face fell. "Oh, man, you do that and John's gonna know I said somethin'."

"Who's John?" Hutch asked, giving Starsky a look that told him how he was trying to be patient with the guy. "And why would he care if you talked to us about him."

Eddie sighed and put his hands in his pockets. Starsky thought he looked like a kid that'd just been told to go to the principal's office. "John's the owner of this place. He don't like cops much and 'specially won't like me talking about his business."

"Tell you what," Starsky said, putting the picture back in his pocket and giving Eddie a smile. "You tell us where we can find John, and we won't say you told us anything. We'll need his whole name, though."

Eddie brightened considerably. "Sure! It's John Pomell, and he lives upstairs. There's a door just to the right of the front door that leads up to several apartments upstairs. He's right on top of the bar, toward the front. He'd be asleep now," Eddie warned, "and probably wouldn't be inclined to talk to you guys if he were woken up."

"We'll take that under consideration." Hutch put his badge back in his back pocket, his eyes sweeping the stage. "Let me ask you another question."

For some reason, Starsky knew just what Hutch was going to ask, and he held his breath.

"You know any of the musicians that play here? Do you know one named Roger Cummings?"

While Hutch had asked the question casually, Starsky could almost feel the tension he was hiding.

Eddie shrugged. "Sure. He's the guitar guy. I don't usually stay to hear them play, but he usually gets here early. Why? He's not in trouble or anything, is he?"

Hutch shrugged, as if the answer didn't mean anything to him. "Just thought I knew the guy. Do you know much about him?"

"No, not really." Eddie looked even more uncertain, and a bit guiltier. "Why, am I supposed to?"

"Uh...no, that's okay," Hutch said, giving Starsky a glance indicating he didn't think the kid's IQ was any too high. "Don't worry about it."

As soon as they were outside, Hutch's stride grew longer and faster as he headed toward the Torino. Starsky had to work to keep up.

"Go ahead, say it," Hutch snapped as soon as Starsky came abreast of him. "I shouldn't have asked him about Cummings. I'm supposed to be on the job, _not_ working on my personal life."

Surprised, Starsky grabbed Hutch's arm, pulling him to a stop. He could see the anger in Hutch's eyes echoed in his stance. "I wasn't gonna say that, Hutch. 'Course you'd wanna know about Cummings. It's only natural."

Hutch softened then, the anger draining from his face and body. He gave Starsky a half smile. "I wasn't going to ask. I told myself I wasn't, but then I did it anyway."

"Well, maybe you should give yourself a break, huh?" Starsky released his grip on Hutch's arm. "You haven't had time to deal with any of this, so don't go makin' so many rules for yourself. You've got a right to know about the guy, and it's not like you went snooping through his stuff."

Hutch shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "What should we do next, go wake up the bar owner and see what he says?"

"I say we go back to the station and check in with Dobey to see if the ME's report is in. Maybe that'll give us more to go on. I'm not sure that getting on the owner's bad side is going to do us any good, if he's not inclined to cooperate. I think we'll have more push if we corner him at the bar during business hours. He might decide to cooperate just to get us out of there."

"Sounds good to me."

 

***

 

They stopped to pick up some food and a newspaper on the way to the station. They had reported in to Dobey, who grumbled about the pressure he was already starting to feel about the murder. Abner Vindell had been one of the leading citizens in the city, and once again those with money seemed to be horrified that one of their own could be murdered on the streets of Bay City. The chief, of course, wanted the case solved as soon as possible, but Starsky could tell it was Vindell's three children Dobey hoped to be able to help.

Starsky finished his sandwich and stuffed the wrapper back into the sack, as he turned another page of the morning edition of the city's main paper. The reporters they'd had to chase off the early morning crime scene hadn't gotten their reports in early enough to make this edition.

Hutch, who was browsing through the ME's report, had pushed most of his lunch aside.

"Anything interesting?" Starsky asked, turning another page.

"Nope," Hutch said tiredly, as he looked up from the file. "Vindell, Caucasian male in his mid- to-late fifties, was stabbed once in the back. Whoever did it was either very lucky, or they knew exactly how to hit the heart through the ribs. The knife was thin and double-sided. We find a possible weapon, and they'll see if the measurements match up.

"His blood alcohol level is consistent with the two beers the bartender remembered serving him during the evening. His last meal had been several hours before, and nothing remained in the stomach that they could identify. They've sent his blood work away for further tests, but frankly, Starsky, I don't see anything here that we didn't see for ourselves at the scene."

"So, no super clues to the killer," Starsky mumbled, scanning the page in front of him. "But he'd to have been pretty bloody when he left the scene. Too bad he didn't leave a trail we could follow. Maybe we can get a line on someone who saw the blood. Sounds like we're going to be doing a lot of pavement pounding on this one. That's nothing new."

"There might not have been too much blood," Hutch said, rubbing his chin in thought. He pointed at one of the pictures of Vindell's body. "The body had drained out by the time it was found, but notice there wasn't much spray. A pro would wait until the guy's heart was stopped and he was on the ground, before removing the knife."

"Another good reason this feels like a hit to me." Starsky stopped as his eyes caught the name "Royal Court." He looked up to the top of the article and read down a few paragraphs. "Hey, Hutch. Wasn't Vindell on one of the city commissions?"

"He was on the Zoning Commission, if I remember what Dobey told us about him."

Starsky felt a growing excitement over what he was seeing in front of him. "C'mere, I think you'll want to see this."

"Have you been keeping up with this whole brouhaha that's been going on the last few months about those casinos?" he asked, as Hutch came up behind him and leaned over his shoulder. He pointed to the article. "This article's about the upcoming vote of the City Zoning Commission on allowing more adult industry to be built on the edges of the city, and they're using Royal Court as an example of what they don't want happening in other parts of the city."

He gave Hutch a moment to read over his shoulder.

"I remember reading about this, but can't say I've paid much attention," Hutch admitted. "But it does sound strange, doesn't it? A member of the Zoning Commission doing some personal investigations of the adult trade?"

"Doesn't sound like the kind of research that'll get much respect from the others on the commission," Starsky said dryly.

"He wasn't killed in the area, we found him on the other side of town, so it may not tie in at all," Hutch said doubtfully.

"Well, it's something we can look at," Starsky said. "Mrs. Van Cleave said he'd been acting as if he'd made some sort of great business deal. Maybe it didn't have anything to do with his business, but with his position on the commission."

"Never hurts to check," Hutch agreed. "He could've been on the take from someone who has a stake in seeing the Zoning Commission make certain recommendations. We've got his checkbook, bank statements, and savings book. Let's see if we can find any signs of sudden and unexplained wealth."

"I have a better idea," Starsky said, glancing at his watch. Now that he'd eaten, he felt the hours catch up with him. "Let's take some time off and take this home with us. We've been up for hours, and it looks like it's gonna be a long night."

"Why don't you tell Dobey we're off the clock for a while? It's your idea."

Starsky turned to look up at Hutch, gladdened by the first sound of teasing he'd heard all day. "Oh, that's nice! I have all the great ideas and you throw me into the line of fire."

"You're catching on quick, partner."

 

***

 

Hutch lay on Starsky's couch, his eyes on the scene through the sliding glass doors. The sun was beginning to set, and the foliage behind Starsky's apartment was taking on that deep dark green of plants in the summer. Woken when Starsky's alarm went off, Hutch now waited for his turn at the shower. Although he'd managed to drift off for a while, he didn't feel rested or refreshed.

_Cummings is probably going to be at the club tonight. I guess I'm going to have to decide how I feel about seeing him again and if I should say anything to him._

He had tried to ignore what happened between him and Cummings, but the questions he'd convinced himself weren't important wouldn't settle in the background. Instead of being something he could live without, he felt a huge part of himself was locked away, and Cummings was the only key. His mind kept replaying the scene with Cummings, as if he could find his answers by going over and over it.

_Can I put off talking to him, even if I have to take some time out from this case? He's already been in the city for weeks. How do I know if he's going to be around much longer?_

Hutch heard the door to the bathroom open. Sitting up, he saw Starsky come in wearing a towel, damp and looking as if his nap had done him some good.

"It's yours," Starsky announced happily. "We can either grab something here, or pick up something on the way. We should get to the Sunrise Club about six-thirty. Maybe we'll be able to catch the owner by surprise and he'll be willing to talk."

"I'm not really hungry," Hutch admitted as he got up from the couch and stretched. "It's up to you."

Hutch started to walk past the towel-clad Starsky, when his arm was grabbed gently. He stopped, but didn't turn toward Starsky or look at him.

"Hutch, about tonight — "

"I know what you're doing, Starsky," Hutch said quickly. "I just don't want to discuss it, okay?"

"Well, I'm not sure it's okay," Starsky said seriously. He let go of Hutch's arm. Hutch could feel Starsky's eyes on him. "I can tell this is really eatin' at you. Why don't you wanna tell me what you're feeling?"

"Because...because I don't _know_ how I feel!" Hutch snapped. Regretting it instantly, he turned to look at Starsky and saw only understanding in his eyes.

"Hey...this is me, here." Starsky gave him a smile and a pat on the arm. "You wanna yell and throw things? Just pick the cheap stuff."

Despite himself, Hutch smiled. "Yeah, well, in that case I'm surrounded with ammunition. And I know you're, right, Starsk, but I just don't know how I feel about it all yet. On one hand, I want to forget it — him, everything — and pretend I never got that letter. On the other..." He shrugged helplessly. "I don't know what I want. Maybe, just...information I guess. There doesn't seem to be much else to hope for."

"Look, whatever you need to do about Cummings tonight, you do it, okay? Just give me the word and I'll cover for you."

Hutch felt himself relax, as if Starsky's words were balm over a wound. He lifted his hand and placed it on Starsky's shoulder, giving it a squeeze before reaching up to tug at a wet unruly curl. "Will do."

He then turned to the bathroom to get ready for the evening, his heart a bit lighter.

 

***

 

Several hours later, they were once again at the Sunrise Club, which was already showing signs of filling up at least as much as the previous night. Starsky had had to park farther down the street, once more in front of the seemingly deserted movie theater. Once inside, they could see there were few tables left and that most of the patrons were crowded around the bar.

As soon as they entered, Hutch glanced at the stage and saw several members of the band setting up their instruments. He felt of flash of disappointment, but turned to follow Starsky to the bar, which was being manned by two people. One was Eddie, and the other man was someone Hutch thought he recognized from the night before.

Hutch stood back while Starsky slid through the patrons, signaling for the bartender's attention. Watching Eddie, he saw the younger man's face grow a bit red, then he turned to fill orders at the opposite corner.

_Eddie doesn't look very happy. Wonder if his conscience is bothering him, or if he's afraid his boss'll find out he talked too much. Maybe he's already spilled the beans, and his boss tanned his hide for it._

Starsky came back a moment later with two beers. He handed one to Hutch, then nodded toward the stage.

"See that young guy? The one in the far table, in the red and blue jacket? That's John Pomell, the owner."

Hutch turned to look, taking a sip of his beer to appear casual. Pomell was at the table to the side of the stage. He had a shot glass in front of him and was making small talk with the drummer. He was younger than Hutch thought he would be, about his and Starsky's age. He had thinning brown hair and a rugged jaw-line, both of which weren't set off well by the color and cut of his loud jacket and contrasting shirt. He had a look about him of someone who'd been through rough times and had fought his way out of them with his bare hands.

"Looks like a hood to me," Starsky said, almost mirroring Hutch's thoughts. "Couldn't have much of a rap sheet if he got a liquor license."

"It's the ones who don't get caught that you've got to worry about."

"Too true," Starsky agreed. "Makes you wonder where he got the money to run this place, and how long he's had it. We may need to do some more digging later."

"Looks like it. Let's go see if Mr. Pomell has decided if he's willing to talk to us cops or not."

As they started to weave through the close-set tables, Hutch tried to concentrate on Pomell's face rather than the stage. A part of him was anxious to see Cummings out of the corner of his eye, and he had to fight the urge to watch for him.

"Mr. Pomell?" Starsky said as soon as they reached the table. "We'd like to talk to you, if you've got a minute."

Pomell scowled as he looked up at them. "Unless one of you is a musician, I can't think of why'd I'd waste my time."

Hutch traded a surprised look with Starsky. "Why, you need one?" he asked, watching as Pomell frowned and sat up straighter, as he and Starsky pulled out two chairs from his table.

"I didn't invite you," Pomell snapped.

"Very few people do," Starsky said with a smile, pulling out his badge and flashing it so only Pomell would see it. "Which is a shame, because my partner and I are usually the life of the party. Nobody ever knows what to expect from us."

"Cops?" The word was a hiss, and Pomell's eyes grew hard. "Damn, now I'll have to fumigate the place. And here I was enjoying myself."

"Nice to know we're appreciated," Hutch said, acting unconcerned about Pomell's reaction. "We're here to talk to you about Abner Vindell. We hear you two were acquainted?"

Something in Pomell seemed to change, as if someone had flipped a switch. Hutch could almost feel Pomell's earlier anger at their intrusion disappear, as a cold detachment took over the man's features.

Pomell shrugged, his eyes sharp on their faces. "He came in a few times; he liked the band. Had an eye for the ladies and liked to dance a bit."

"How many times?" Hutch asked. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"A few times; I wasn't keepin' count. He was a bit of a drag, but he had a name, so I gave him some attention when he was in. Good for business. He was here last Wednesday night, but I didn't talk to him very long. I've got too much work to do in the back to hang out all night and drink my profits. Don't know anything else about the guy, 'cept the news says he's dead."

"Oh, no!" Starsky looked over at Hutch with a surprised look. "Is he really? Did you hear that, Hutch? Then I guess..." Starsky turned to give Pomell a hard glare. "...we must be investigatin' a murder. You know, Pomell, Hutch and I are nosy bastards, and when we want information, we've been known to do a lot of work to get it. Do you think this bar of yours can stand a really, really thorough examination? Or how about you, yourself?"

"Go right ahead." Pomell gave them a one-shoulder shrug. He picked up his glass and drained it dry before standing up. "But there isn't anything to find, on either me or this guy who got himself killed. Tell you what, you find anything different, you contact my lawyer and ask for an appointment. I'll be sure to get right back to you."

As Pomell walked off, Hutch and Starsky traded looks. There wasn't anything new in what Pomell had told them, except the Wednesday night Pomell mentioned matched with the night Eddie saw him at the bar.

"Well, that went about as well as I expected." Starsky took a big swallow of beer. "Do you think he was holding something back? Or are we barking up the wrong tree."

"He's hard to read. Even though we know he hates cops, it's hard to see if we're worrying him any. He's a cold one."

Hutch put his beer on the table, listening as the band on stage made the final adjustments before starting their first set of the evening. Cummings hadn't appeared, and from what Pomell had said, it sounded as if he probably wouldn't.

"Eddie's due to get off now," Starsky said, looking into his glass. The band started with a country-jazz tune Hutch didn't recognize, not even taking the time to introduce themselves. Starsky leaned closer so Hutch could hear him. "We could corner him outside and see if he spilled the beans on us. If so, Pomell coulda said something that would give us a better grip on him. And we could ask him if he knows anything about Cummings not showing up."

Hutch was tempted to reject the idea of asking about Cummings, but he couldn't help being curious. "Okay, let's do it."

They both got up, leaving their glasses on the table. They spotted Eddie, just as he disappeared down the hallway, along the back of the building. Starsky caught Hutch's eyes and nodded toward the door, and Hutch followed him out.

Outside, there was still some twilight left, but already the streets were filling up, and the neon lights gave the street an eerie, almost holiday glow. Hutch took a deep breath, suddenly realizing how stale the air had been inside.

"Is it just me, or do you feel like we're chasin' our tails here?"

Hutch sighed and leaned against the building. "I don't know, Starsk. Someone killed Vindell, but it could be just a random mugging gone bad. We both know there are some people out there desperate enough for a guy's wallet that they'll screw things up. And his bank records were clean, so it doesn't look like he was taking bribes or paying blackmail."

"Too clean," Starsky said. He leaned a shoulder against the building, blocking Hutch's from view from the club door while allowing him see who came and went. "Did you notice that the guy had lousy handwriting on his letters and notes, but all the number he wrote in his registers were real neat? Kinda looked to me like he'd been very careful with those numbers. Could be that was just the way he did things — "

"Or maybe he was too careful when it came to keeping his public books, because those were the ones he expected to be scrutinized." Hutch thought back to the statements and registers they had gone over back at the station. "Could be he's got two sets of books, and we just haven't found the second set yet. Vindell had money, but that doesn't mean he wasn't hiding some away somewhere."

"But, basically, we've got nothing."

Hutch shrugged, watching as a couple exited the club. "Well, even getting nothing is something. We know he was just breaking out of his shell, and that his slumming it in this area was just a new lifestyle. We can concentrate on interviewing his employees and business associates on Monday."

"I don't know," Starsky said, smiling at Hutch. "I think I'm happier scroungin' the street for info than talkin' to the business types. Doesn't it ever seem to you that some people lead really boring lives?"

Hutch laughed. "Man, I could use a little more of that kind of boredom. This was supposed to be a weekend off, remember?"

Starsky grimaced. "Don't remind me."

Hutch pushed himself away from the building, catching sight of Eddie as he left the building. "Let's go."

It only took them a moment to flank Eddie as he walked down the street. Hutch counted five whole seconds before Eddie seemed to notice they were there.

"Hey! Where'd you two come from?"

"We're your guardian angels, Eddie," Hutch said cheerfully, putting an arm over the younger man's shoulder. "Wouldn't want you to get mugged while you're walking to your car."

"I don't have a car." Eddie, showing more spunk than Hutch anticipated, shook off his arm and gave him an annoyed look. "And I don't need an escort to catch a bus. What do you want?"

"We noticed," Starsky said, turning around to walk backwards so he could see Eddie's face, "that Pomell didn't seem to like us much. We were just wondering if you'd happened to mention we'd been here asking about Vindell."

"You crazy?" Eddie snorted. "I told you he didn't like cops. If he thought I'd even given you the time of day, I would've been looking for a new job."

"Why did you?" Hutch sighed at the blank look Eddie responded with. "Why did you help us at all?"

Eddie shrugged. "I don't know. My mom always said you were supposed to do what the cops told you. Just because Pomell don't like you guys doesn't mean I'm not supposed to help. But then again, a guy don't need to get fired over it, neither."

Starsky turned back around and the three of them continued on. "That's fair, I guess. But we've got another question. Do you have any idea why Cummings didn't show tonight?"

Hutch saw Eddie turn red, and he realized what had happened. He stopped and grabbed Eddie by the arm, turning the younger man to face him. "You told Cummings we asked about him, didn't you? That's why he didn't show!"

"He just asked what was up!" Eddie protested, trying to jerk his arm out of Hutch's grasp. "I...I guess I was watchin' the door, and he asked me what was goin' on. So I told him I'd been questioned by some cops. He's a nice guy, I knew he wouldn't say anything to the boss."

Fury filled Hutch, and before he knew it, Starsky had a grip on his arm and was pulling him off Eddie.

"He asked you what we looked like, right, kid?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah." Eddie rubbed his arm. "So what?"

"When was this?" Starsky asked quietly.

"Just a few minutes before you came in. Honest. He just turned and left. I don't know why he's not playing tonight."

"Okay, Eddie. Thanks," Starsky said, giving Hutch a look that told him he needed to back off. "We've got to be going, but you'd best keep this all to yourself, okay?"

"I know that," Eddie said angrily. "I'm not stupid."

Eddie stomped off, and they didn't attempt to follow him. Hutch felt numbness replace the anger.

Starsky, his hand still on Hutch's arm, was searching his face. "You think Cummings is avoiding you, or that he's going to bolt?"

"Both," Hutch whispered, starting to feel sick. "I've got to see him again, Starsk. Even if he doesn't want to see me, I've got to try before he disappears again."

Starsky pulled him around, until they were facing the direction of the hotel Cummings was staying at. "Then we'll go and pay him a visit. We've got the time."

By the time they reached the hotel, Saturday night was in full swing. Part of Hutch wondered how anyone at the hotel could get any sleep before all the businesses closed down for the evening.

_But then again..._ he thought, as they made their way through some very attentive and scantily dressed women who were hanging out in front of the hotel entrance. _I doubt many of these rooms are rented for sleeping._

Inside the hotel lobby, for a second time in almost twenty-four hours, Hutch didn't notice an improvement. Looking over the clientele that lounged on the well-worn furniture, it looked like some of them hadn't moved at all since then.

Hutch was glad to see the same clerk he'd over-bribed the night before. He smiled as the man's face fell at his arrival.

"Don't tell me," the man said with a sneer. "You two need a room, right? Got it written all over ya."

"Oh, this guy's just hilarious," Starsky said to Hutch. "He always this funny?"

"I wouldn't know, but I do know he owes me some information," Hutch said pleasantly. He then raised his voice, so it could be heard around the lobby. "And he's not going to give us any trouble, right?"

"Would you hold it down?" the clerk hissed, putting a forced but pleasant look on his face. "All right, I guess I owe you. But you tip these guys off that I talk to the cops, and neither one of us is gonna get any more out of this place. What is it now?"

"Cummings," Hutch said shortly, leaning on the counter. "His room number."

"It's 512, and the elevator don't work."

"He up there?" Starsky asked, leaning on the counter as well.

"Wouldn't know, I had a dinner break. Lot of people I don't see coming or going."

"Fine," Hutch said, turning toward the staircase. He stopped, realizing Starsky wasn't moving with him.

Starsky walked away from the counter, over to a corner of the lobby and out of earshot of anyone else in the room. Hutch followed.

"You go up and I'll keep an eye on the lobby," Starsky said, leaning with his back against the dirty wallpaper. "They might not have phones in their rooms, but my presence down here will keep Mr. Charming over there from warning anyone. If Cummings comes in, we don't want him warned he's got a visitor."

Hutch felt suddenly vulnerable, but he could see Starsky was right. "Yeah, okay. I don't know — "

"Take your time," Starsky said, giving Hutch a smile. "I'll be here. Now, go on and see if he's in."

Hutch started up the stairs. Every step he took seemed to add a new weight to his shoulders. By the time he reached the fifth floor landing, he was close to turning around and leaving.

_I can't let this pass. At least, if he really doesn't want to know me, I'll know for sure. I guess that's what they mean when they talk about closure. I could put a period on it and go home._

Room 512 was halfway down the hall, and as Hutch approached the door, he could hear the sounds of water running from inside. He rapped loudly before he had a chance to think about it.

The sound of water stopped, then the door opened a slit, and Hutch could see surprise on Cummings' face as he recognized him.

"Shit! What are you doing here?" Cummings opened the door quickly and stepped back. "Well, come in and let's be done with it."

Hutch stepped in and walked over to the dirty window that showed only another wall across the alley. The room was dusty and drab, with a tiny bathroom off to the side. The bed looked lumpy, and the rest of the furniture had seen better days. The room looked as if someone had camped out for several weeks. Dirty clothes were thrown into a corner, with what must be clean ones thrown over the one chair in the room. There were two pairs of shoes under the bed, along with a haphazard pile of magazines and a paperback book. There were several paper cups around the room, empty bottles of liquor in the overflowing garbage, a pizza box and a hot plate on the top of a low dresser.

Cummings shut the door quickly behind him. His voice was gruff. "I thought I told you I have nothing to say to you. You need to leave."

Hutch turned to face him, noticing how much older the man looked in the yellow glare of the naked bulb on the ceiling. There was something in his eyes, the way he stood by the door, that told Hutch that Cummings was nervous, maybe even fearful.

Hutch took a breath and tried to ask his question calmly. "Why did you send that letter?"

"A weak moment." Cummings scowled. "Best forgotten."

"Like my mother?" Hutch hissed, anger making him grow colder. "Do you always walk out on the teenage girls you get pregnant, or was my mother a special case?"

"Don't you bring her into this!" Cummings' face started to turn red, as if his anger was just now seeping to the surface. "You don't understand, and it's none of your business what went on between us!"

"Not my business?" Hutch was astounded at the remark. " _You_ leave _my_ mother, pregnant with me, at some sleazy hotel and disappear forever, and it's none of mybusiness?"

Cummings took a few threatening steps toward Hutch, fury on his face. They came almost nose to nose as Hutch refused to back down.

"Listen, you spoiled, nosy, punk! You don't understand what the hell went on back then, and I'm in no mood to educate you."

Without thinking, Hutch grabbed Cummings' arm as he turned away.

"Listen, you asshole, you're _not_ walking out on me again! You _owe_ me!"

The words reverberated around the small room. Hutch's grip on the man's arm tightened even more as Cummings' eyes seemed to bore through him.

"I don't owe you _nothing_!" His eyes were wild, and through his grip Hutch could feel the man was taut, as if ready to strike out at any second. "You and  me were an accident of fate. I _never_ should've been with your mother, and you never should've found out about me." Savagely, he jerked his arm out of Hutch's grip. His voice went low, his tone definite and almost threatening. "We're _nothing_ to each other, and I was stupid to think it could be otherwise. Don't come around again, 'cause there ain't nothing here for either of us."

Hutch was frozen with anger as they glared at each other. He was afraid if he moved he'd lose control, his fists clenched and ready to strike.

Cummings moved first, opening the door to the hallway, his face stony and cold.

Hutch walked out the door and down the hall. He ended up in the lobby, with no real memory of descending the four flights. He strode down the sidewalk, shoving his way through the protesting crowd, needing something to vent his anger on and afraid to find it.

Someone grabbed his arm, causing him to jerk away and draw his fist back in preparation to strike. It was Starsky, who grabbed his arm again, this time in a bruising grip. Hutch held himself still, allowing Starsky to search his face.

"C'mon," Starsky ordered, pulling him down the sidewalk.

Hutch followed, fighting the urge to break away and go off on his own. Before he realized it, they were at the Torino, and Starsky was pushing him toward the passenger door. Hutch got in, slamming the door.

He didn't say anything, his jaw still too clenched in anger to allow words. Starsky just drove, asking no questions, for which Hutch was grateful. His mind was whirling with words he wished he'd said, questions he wished he'd asked, going over and over the scene his mind wouldn't let go.

His concentration was jolted as Starsky shoved his shoulder. "Out!"

Hutch looked around, surprised to find they had traveled across town to the back of Vinnie's Gym. Starsky was already out of the car and inside the building before Hutch realized he was supposed to follow.

The locker room was empty, but there was an echo of voices from Vinnie's office. As late as it was, Hutch realized that Vinnie must be ready to lock up the place for the night.

Vinnie walked out of his office just as Hutch reached it. The older man gave him a grin, a nod, and a slap on the shoulder as he passed by him. "I'll see you later, Hutch. You and Starsky just make sure the place is locked up tight when you leave, and I won't even add it to your tab."

When Vinnie shut the back door behind him, Hutch realized he and Starsky had the whole building to themselves.

Starsky held up a roll of hand tape, and Hutch understood. Stripping off his jacket and holster, then pulling off his shirt, Hutch prepared to burn off some of his frustration.

His breathing echoed in the huge, empty gym; the sound of his blows against the punching bag making a strange counter-point to the rapid beating of his heart. The jolt from each blow ran up his arm, into his shoulders and all the aching muscles of his body. Barefoot and bare-chested, he moved back and forth from foot to foot, sweat running down his body and into his eyes. He slammed the bag with his left hand, his fingers feeling swollen and stiff under the tape Starsky had wrapped them in.

He had no idea how long he'd been at the bag. Once he'd started, his anger had driven him, tearing its way out from the inside like a lion demanding to be released. He had struck mercilessly, savagely, egged on by the words thrown at him by the man who had abandoned him and his mother.

He struck blows on his own behalf, but as he continued, glimpses of all the children his heart had ached for over the years flashed through his mind. They'd found some of them abandoned, some physically or emotionally neglected, and no matter what kind of help they had found for them, Hutch knew they could never undo the damage that been done by parents who supposedly loved them.

He fell forward, gasping, holding on to the bag for support. Although feeling as if he had no strength left, he hung on. The anger that had filled him was still there, but it could no longer hide the grief that fueled it. He heard the sob before he realized he'd made it, could feel the tears hotter than the sweat that covered him.

In a moment, Starsky's arms were around him, pulling him away from the bag and sitting them both on the floor in a tangle of limbs. Starsky was talking to him softly, holding him close, breaking down any control Hutch might have had left. He relaxed, buried his face in the crook of Starsky's neck, and let the tears come unhindered.

Even through the worst of it, Hutch was aware of Starsky holding him up, talking to him, and patting his back as he would a distraught child. Slowly, as the tears subsided, he started to listen to the comforting murmur of Starsky's words.

"...not there then we can always go back to Duluth for a while. You know, you keep tellin' me about the place, and how great it was to grow up there. Although if it was such a great place, then I wonder why you were so dead set to come out here to college. Not that it's not great out here, too — "

"Because I wanted to own a boat," Hutch whispered, his voice sounding as wet as his face.

"What?" Starsky pulled back and put his hands on Hutch's shoulders, helping him sit up. He looked surprised. "You wanted a boat?"

"Yeah," Hutch said, turning his head and wiping at his face. He knew he looked like a mess and needed a towel. "I was a Sea Scout, remember? The university had a good curriculum, and I wanted to get away from home and live on a boat. Thought I'd sail out on the tides on the weekends and have some hellacious parties."

Starsky gave him an amused smile. "Well, what happened to the boat? All this time out here, and all I've ever seen you do is hang around the docks."

"Real life is what happened to the boat. I was nineteen and had only had part-time jobs before that. Those had been for pocket money, so what the hell did I know about having a real job, living away from home, and the cost of boats?"

"Oh, poor little rich kid, huh?"

They both laughed, and Hutch found himself feeling slightly ridiculous. "Guess I sort of flipped out on you, huh?"

"No way. If you'd've flipped out, there would've been a trail of bodies outside that hotel. You just needed to beat the hell out of something, and we were lucky to catch Vinnie on the way out."

Hutch sighed, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them. "Guess you can tell it didn't go so well."

"Want to tell me?"

Hutch thought about it a moment. He wasn't sure how much he wanted to go into so soon. "Nothing really to tell. He has no interest in knowing me, or talking about it all. He said the letter was a moment of weakness, and he changed his mind. I lost it, he called me a spoiled punk, and I called him an asshole. That about sums it up."

"Well, that's not so bad." The sympathy in Starsky's eyes showed through his casual reply. "Heck, you should be around my family during holidays. That would've been a hello kiss, before all the catty remarks and political disagreements started."

A vision of a roomful of aggravated Starskys flashed through his mind, and Hutch found himself chuckling. "Yeah, well, I have had worse. My dad and I have had some whoppers in our day."

The thought of the man who'd raised him suddenly made Hutch feel homesick. "I think I need to call my folks, Starsk. It's not too late, they'll be up. Except...." Hutch felt embarrassed, suddenly remembering they were supposed to be on a case.

"Look, we've got tomorrow to do some digging into Pomell's background. We can do that at the station and then see if Vindell's kids are in. Who knows, maybe he wrote them or told them something that might point to what he was into." Starsky stood up and held out a hand to help Hutch up. "Let's call it a night and start fresh in the morning."

Too tired to disagree or feel too guilty, Hutch nodded and reached up for Starsky's help. It was time to go home and pull himself together.

 

***

 

It was still very early for a Saturday night, yet Starsky felt this had been the longest day he'd had in a long time. His fingers tapped a beat on the wheel of the Torino, his mind still on the man in the apartment above him in Venice Place.

Hutch had been quiet on the trip back, looking out the passenger window and saying nothing. Starsky hadn't tried to start a conversation, as Hutch looked too tired after his bout at the gym. Hutch had gotten out alone, after asking Starsky to pick him up in the morning. He knew Hutch needed some space, and that was okay now that the monstrous anger Starsky had seen at the hotel was gone.

Starsky was glad he'd been able to diffuse Hutch's anger, but it did little to dull his own.

_What do I say to help him accept the facts and start healing from the hurt? Are there words? Probably not. I'll never understand how a man can walk away from a child like that. I can't imagine how I would've felt if my pop had left Ma and me. His death... It hurt like hell, and part of me hated him for leaving us alone. It was only later, when I started making grown-up mistakes of my own, that I realized how human he was. He didn't leave by choice._

_And that makes all the difference._

Starsky sighed, reaching down to turn off the music he was too agitated to listen to. He tried to relax, but there was too much anger in him. Hutch _hurt_ , and besides being there for him, there seemed to be something elsehe should be able to do for his friend.

_Who **is** this guy, anyway? Why stir up all this shit now? He **must** have a reason for all this. Maybe it's time someone else asked him._

He knew what he was thinking was dangerous. Hutch wouldn't be happy to discover Starsky had meddled, but what if he and Cummings were both too close to the issue? What if they just needed someone to be the middleman while they both sorted through their feelings?

He started the car and turned it back toward Royal Court.

 

***

 

Starsky eyed the door to Room 512, wondering if Cummings had left town already. He had checked the club to see if the musician had gone back to work, but the band still limped on without him.

There was no answer to his knock, no light, and no feeling of movement behind the door. He rapped again, harder. Still no answer.

_No harm if I just look, right? Just a quick look, to see if he's packed up and left already._

Slipping his wallet out, he glanced up and down the empty hall. Taking out a credit card, he tried the old trick of slipping his card in and sliding it down at an angle to push the bolt back. The door started to swing open, but Starsky held it mostly closed, listening for someone inside to raise an alarm.

After a few seconds of silence, Starsky strode into the dark room as though he'd paid for it. He turned on the light and took stock quickly.

It was a dark and depressing place, with clothing in the corner, the bed unmade and magazines and papers all over the nightstand. He strode to the bathroom, flipping on the light and leaning on the door jamb as he surveyed the room. It wasn't quite filthy, but it wasn't exactly someplace Starsky would live unless he absolutely had to.

_I wonder if he's lived his whole life like this. If he's lived on the road, this could be a step up. I can't imagine that kind of life._

He opened the door to the small closet, where a few pieces of clothing were hanging. At the bottom was a suitcase; it wasn't shut all the way and he could see it was empty.

_Looks like he hasn't left yet. Maybe he's found another place to work. I don't see his guitar anywhere. Unless he's leaving it at the club. He'd be a fool to leave it in here._

The sound of a key in the lock gave him only a second's notice that he'd been caught. Starsky turned to the sound and stood his ground as Roger Cummings opened the door. He stood there for a second in his shirt sleeves with a jacket thrown over his left arm.

Cummings was taller than Hutch, and there were other differences. Broad in the shoulders, he had a bit of a barrel chest, with a hint of reddish hair at his collar. While Hutch had a generous mouth, this man had only a grim line of flesh. Where Hutch's blue eyes could be cold, stormy, or ocean warm, this man's eyes were so pale they were almost an ice-cold white. And those eyes were busy measuring Starsky and finding him lacking.

Neither of them moved, then Cummings' low, throaty voice filled the room. "You made a bad choice, son," he said, almost regretfully. "I may not have much, but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let some motherfuckin' street trash walk away with it."

Cummings took a step toward him, and Starsky held up his open hands, showing he had nothing in them. "I'm not here for your stuff. I'm here to talk to you."

"They all say that, when they're caught," Cummings sneered as he shut the door behind them. His right hand, partially hidden under the fold of his jacket, moved, and a small "snick" preceded the appearance of steel. The tip of a switchblade glinted wickedly in the room's single light. "You're going to have to do better than that, junior."

"Not smart," Starsky said, lowering his voice to a low rumble while his eyes never left Cummings'. "You shove that thing into Hutch's partner, and he'll find you no matter how well you hide."

"You're his partner?" Cummings stopped, looking Starsky up and down. A look of recognition crossed his face. "You were in the bar last night!" he said accusingly. "What the hell were you two doing? Getting ready to double-team me like some goddamned _suspect_?"

"I came 'cause he needed someone to watch his back," Starsky said sharply. He looked pointedly at the switchblade. "This isn't the safest part of town to let your guard down, ya know?"

Cummings snorted in amusement, reaching under the jacket to transfer the knife to his right hand. Starsky saw the movement before it happened, squelching the urge to go for his gun, as Cummings' arm brought the blade up to throw it. Instinctively, Starsky knew the aim was wrong and that Cummings was only trying to psych him out. The blade sailed toward the bed; its tip sank in the old wood of the nightstand with a loud thunk.

He saw Cummings' face register slight approval at the fact that Starsky hadn't flinched. "Watch his back or hold his hand?"

"Whatever the hell he needs, whenever he needs it."

Cummings stood a moment, as if contemplating the truthfulness of the answer. He turned to walk past Starsky to the bed, throwing the jacket down and sitting down heavily. "Hell of a career for him to pick, being a cop. Never knew one that wasn't an asshole on a power trip."

"Is that why you brushed him off tonight after sending that letter?" Starsky asked, his words clipped with anger. His next words came out before he thought about them. "You jerked his chain 'cause he's a cop, or are you just naturally a piece of shit?"

"I don't want anything from that kid, including the time of day. So he'd better grow up and get used to it." Cummings leaned back against the headboard, pulling his feet up on the bed as he started to loosen his tie. "You're overstaying your welcome. You can get the hell out of my room before I have you arrested for trespassing."

"That's it?" Starsky asked in astonishment, walking up to the bed, his fists clenched. "You write a letter getting his hopes up, he comes down here to see you, and you just toss him out like garbage? Can't you even give him an hour of your time? An answer to the questions he's been carrying around like a weight around his neck? You owe him _that_ at least!"

"Damn, you two are a pair; you even talk for each other." Cummings closed his eyes and crossed his arms tiredly, as if in dismissal. "You care about him? That's your problem. Go hold his hand and maybe you'll both feel better."

Starsky gritted his teeth. He turned, grabbing the switchblade. He saw Cummings stiffen. Starsky held up the knife in the light, looking it over closely. It had been an expensive tool when new, and while it obviously had some years on it, it had been kept wickedly sharp.

"You were right, all those years ago," Starsky said softly. He pressed the button on the side of the knife and carefully folded the blade back into the base. "He _was_ better off without you. You probably would've run off a hundred times, and he would've spent his life chasing your worthless tail. You did him a favor back then, showing him what a coward you are."

He tossed the closed blade at Cummings' feet, meeting the wary eyes with a shake of his head. "The sad thing is, Cummings, you cut your own throat years ago. One of these days, you're gonna find you've bled your soul out, and there ain't no one in this sad world who'll care."

Starsky turned and strode to the door, slamming it behind him.

 

***

 

Starsky walked to the kitchen slowly, still damp from his morning shower. He yawned, pulling his t-shirt on over his head as he headed toward the coffeepot. He still felt fuzzy and was glad he'd remembered to put the pot on before his shower. Even though they had decided not to go in to the station too early, Starsky had been sorely tempted to turn off the alarm and go back to sleep.

Part of his reluctance to face the day, and his tossing and turning for quite a bit of the night, was that he was going to have to spend the day at the station when he'd looked forward to the weekend off. The biggest part was the fact that he'd gone behind Hutch's back and was going to have to admit it to him.

_What was I thinking? Why didn't I just keep my nose out of it? I've got to tell him and just hope he can understand I meant well._

He felt bad as soon as he'd left Cummings' room. What if he left town because of what Starsky had said? It wasn't like he'd gone in with much diplomacy, and if Hutch had had any hopes of breaking through the wall Cummings had built around himself, he may have ruined that one small chance.

Just as he took his first sip of coffee, the doorbell rang, followed by an impatient pounding.

_That's not Hutch,_ Starsky thought. _I'm supposed to pick him up._

When Starsky opened the door, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Detective Simonetti, smiling like a Cheshire cat, was standing at the door, with a nervous-looking uniformed officer Starsky knew standing behind him.

"Good morning, Detective Starsky," Simonetti said cheerfully, his eyes looking around the room behind Starsky. "Hope I haven't disturbed you."

The icy touch of danger skimmed Starsky's backbone as Simonetti spoke. Ever since Simonetti and Dryden had tried to arrest Hutch for the murder of his ex-wife, Starsky had known that IA was keeping a close eye on both him and Hutch. Not that that was any surprise, since they'd pretty much rubbed Simonetti's and Dryden's noses in their failure. The additional presence of the uniformed officer told Starsky that Dryden was going to try to spring something on him.

"Of course you're disturbing me," Starsky replied casually. "I wasn't standing at my door, waiting for you. What do you want?"

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

Simonetti was being altogether too nice, and Starsky decided to force him to get to the point.

"No, afraid not. I've got a case to work on today and need to get ready. Why don't you save us both a lot of time and tell me what you want."

"How about telling me what you and Hutch were doing on Royal Court yesterday?"

Starsky frowned, wondering if Cummings had indeed turned in a complaint about their visits. If so, he didn't want to tell Simonetti too much of Hutch's business. Or it could be Pomell, who'd acted cocky enough to have some friends in the Department who could pull a few strings.

"We had case business down in that area," Starsky said carefully. "You can ask Dobey for the particulars. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you."

"What about your visit to the Royal Court Hotel later that night? That part of your case?"

Starsky crossed his arms, his fruitless visit to Cummings now his first guess at Simonetti's visit. "Why don't you tell me what you're fishing for, Simonetti? I've got to leave in a few minutes."

Simonetti's smile only got wider. "Well, since you're not inclined to cooperate, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me to the station. Since you were going there anyway, we'd love to give you a ride."

"Are you arresting me?" Starsky asked with surprise, his trepidation at facing a harassment complaint turning to a chill of dread.

"Do I need to? I'm sure Dobey and the chief would love to hear that you've got something to hide."

For a long moment, Starsky locked eyes with Simonetti. Something about the man's confident manner, his obvious enjoyment of the situation, and the uniformed officer told him that Simonetti was all primed to make trouble.

"I'll get my shoes on," Starsky said, stepping back to close the door when Simonetti took a quick step in to block it.

"Sorry, we'll just wait here. You've got a minute or so."

On his way to the bedroom, Starsky gave the phone a reluctant look, knowing Simonetti wouldn't take kindly to his giving Hutch a warning call.

_I've waited too long to tell him. Something bad has happened, and I don't know what to say to keep Hutch and Cummings out of it. Maybe there's something else going on down there, and we happened to stumble into it when we flashed our badges at the clerk._

_Whatever it is, Simonetti is too damn happy. I feel like he's setting me up to tell me how bad I've been screwed._

 

***

 

Starsky carefully rolled the full cup of coffee back and forth between his palms, using it as a focus. Simonetti had brought the coffee to him, fresh and hot, as a courtesy from one cop to another. That action would have been appreciated from someone else, but from Simonetti it was a joke. Just like him being taken to a small lounge outside the IA office wasn't what it looked like. Whether it was in an interrogation room, an office, or a lounge, it appeared he was being questioned on a serious matter, and he was being recorded. Part of him focused on moving the coffee without spilling it, while the other part dissected the question Simonetti had just asked.

"Where was I all night last night?"

"What's the matter, Starsky?" Simonetti said conversationally, as he sat opposite Starsky with his own cup of coffee. "That isn't a hard question, now is it?"

"Oh, not hard at all," Starsky drawled, looking up into Simonetti's eyes. "It's just that, as a detective you understand, I have to wonder what the hell I'm doing here. I'm starting to wonder if I should just cut to the chase and walk out." Starsky grinned, watching for Simonetti's reaction. "It'd be interesting to see how badly you want to stop me from walking out that door."

"Now, why would you do that?" Simonetti asked after taking a slow slip of his coffee. "We're all cops here, Starsky. We should all work together."

"It doesn't seem to me like you've done much cooperatin' on your end. Why don't you tell me what's going on, and I'll fill in the important blanks?"

"We could talk to Dobey — "

"And if you haven't, it's because you don't know what you've got, and you don't want Dobey steppin' in between us." Starsky leaned back, crossing his arms. He could feel his patience waning. "Let's get to the basics here, Simonetti. I remember how you treated Hutch. You and Dryden. It didn't matter that Hutch said he was innocent. Didn't matter that Dobey and I could've vouched for him from now to kingdom come. To you, he was a dirty cop, and you didn't bother to do any more investigating than it took to pin a murder rap on a good man."

Simonetti frowned, his eyes growing cold. "All the evidence at the time told us — "

"The only evidence you wanted to look at, you mean!" Starsky snapped. He glared at Simonetti, letting the man know he was deadly serious. "You wanted to take a cop down and didn't give a shit about much else. I've got the same feeling that's what you want to do now. So I'm gonna tell you this just once. You either tell me what's going on here, or I'm walking out that door. Make up your mind quickly, 'cause I'm on my own time now."

Simonetti stared at him for a moment, then nodded and smiled wickedly. He stood up and walked to the door, rapping on it twice. Detective Wright came in, also from IA, and Starsky knew it was about to hit the fan.

"Okay, hot shot," Simonetti said silkily, a look of pure delight on his face. He pulled out a folded sheet of paper, and Starsky didn't have to look at it to see it was a warrant for arrest. "We've given you a chance to tell us the truth, but since you can't seem to do that, we'll go by the book. As of this moment, _Detective_ Starsky, you're under arrest for Murder One."

Starsky stood slowly, his jaw clenching in order to keep his temper in check. "And just who am I supposed to have murdered?" he asked. From the corner of his eye he could see Wright pulling out his cuffs.

"Figured you knew that already, but I'll give you a clue. It was a man you and Hutchinson visited last night. A man who was found knifed to death shortly after you left his room — alone. His name was Roger Cummings."

_Hutch's father?_ Starsky was stunned and couldn't believe he'd heard right. _He can't be dead! He was fine when I left him!_

As Wright came toward him with cuffs in hand, Starsky glared at Simonetti, but he knew he had little choice but to respect the warrant. "You won't need those," Starsky ground out between his clenched teeth.

"Remembering your tendencies when it comes to 'going by the book,' Detective, I think we will. I'm not letting you slip through my fingers."

Starsky felt the handcuffs go around his wrists, but his mind was running over the evening before, when he'd left Cummings in that messy hotel room. And Hutch —

_Hutch is gonna find out Cummings is dead, and I didn't even tell him I saw him last night! This will blindside him like a truck at full speed._

_Ah, hell, buddy! What the hell is this going to do to you?_

 

***

 

"I don't know what the hell this is all about, Dryden, but I'm telling you now, you'd better have a damn good reason to be harassing us!" Hutch leaned back in his chair in Dryden and Simonetti's office. He had just been about to call Starsky, to check on his ride, when Dryden had shown up at his door, offering to drive him to the station since Starsky was otherwise occupied. "I want to talk to Starsky, and I want to talk to him now!"

He had tried to call Dobey as soon as he arrived, but there was no answer at his home. He had refused to go with Dryden and had driven his own car in to the station, as soon as it became apparent that Starsky was there and in some sort of trouble. Hutch's stomach was in a knot as he drove, knowing full well Dryden was riding his tail to make sure he didn't pull any tricks like the last time Dryden had been sent to bring one of them in.

"Harassing? That doesn't sound like a very cooperative attitude," Dryden said with a false smile, as he sat down at a desk across from Hutch. "Starsky came in to talk to us. Why make it sound as if he's been kidnapped? We'd just like to ask you a few questions while you're waiting for him."

Hutch gritted his teeth and counted to ten. "Then get to the point, Dryden, or I'll walk right out of here and find him myself."

Dryden raised his hands in supplication. "How about we get to the first one? You two were working on the Vindell case, right? Why did you go down to Royal Court? Did you get a good lead? Make a trip out to check on a suspect?"

Hutch tried not to let the unease he was feeling show on his face. He could hardly forget the trip to meet his father, but he couldn't think of anything they had done to draw attention to themselves, and he didn't feel comfortable relating something that personal to Dryden.

"We were following some information given to us about where Vindell was hanging out in his off time," Hutch said carefully. "We did some leg work and found that he'd visited a bar down in that area a couple nights before he was killed."

_What did we stumble into last night? Is our Vindell case overlapping with someone else's undercover work? If so, why not just give us the lowdown and let us know? They must think they've got something on Starsky, or are using him to get something from me. Otherwise, Dryden wouldn't be so smug._

Then another thought hit him, and he tried to hide the jolt it gave him. _Is this about Cummings? Is there a reason he changed his mind so suddenly about seeing me? Or did he make some kind of complaint?_

"Was Starsky with you?"

Hutch watched Dryden's face and realized this was an important question. Whatever had caused them to bring Starsky down here to IA must have something to do with their trip to Royal Court.

"He was with me. We usually work that way.

"Who drove?"

"He did."

"You go straight home?"

Hutch could feel a creeping sensation at the base of his spine, as the questions seemed to get more personal and more focused on Starsky. Was he tightening some noose around Starsky's neck, without knowing it?

"No. We went to my gym after calling it quits for the night."

"Did Starsky crash at your place?"

Hutch could almost taste the temptation to lie on the tip of his tongue. Even though he knew how dangerous it would be to get caught in a lie, the urge to throw a roadblock in Dryden's way was strong.

"No, he didn't," Hutch said angrily, his frustration reaching its peak. "We're not joined at the hip, you know. This bullshit has gone on long enough. If you've got something to — "

The phone rang, and Dryden picked it up as if he'd been waiting for it to happen. He listened for a moment, and Hutch felt the hair on the back of his neck crawl, as a superior smile crawled across Dryden's face. Without a word, he replaced the phone in the cradle.

"You're right, Hutchinson. Time for some direct questions. Do you know a man by the name of Roger Cummings?"

Hutch could feel his eyes widen in surprise at hearing the name. He knew instantly he'd made a mistake in letting Dryden read him too well, but it was too late to control it.

"I see you do know him," Dryden said, his sharp eyes on Hutch's face. "Who is he? A snitch? A suspect you two were leaning on? He have something to do with Vindell's death?"

Before Hutch could answer, the door opened behind him, and he turned to see Simonetti stride into the room as if he was wearing a million-dollar suit. Hutch stood up to face him, and Simonetti's smile widened.

"How's it going, Dryden? Has Hutchinson been cooperating like a good boy?"

"I'm leaving, Simonetti, and unless you have a warrant, you can talk to Dobey about any more of these friendly little meetings!"

Hutch turned angrily, heading for the door.

"Too late. We've already served the warrant."

Hutch stopped before the door, his skin crawling with the tone of Simonetti's voice. He turned to see both IA men smiling at him.

"Your buddy, Starsky, is in booking right now."

"Booking? What the hell _for_?" Hutch bellowed in surprise and anger.

"For the murder of Roger Cummings."

He suddenly felt dizzy and cold, like a freezing ocean wave had hit him without warning.

_Cummings? **Dead?** He **can't** be... _Then he suddenly remembered the rest of Simonetti's statement — Starsky was being booked for his murder. _Murdered? By Starsky? That's crazy! They're wrong. Cummings can't be dead, and Starsky_ —

His brain refused to even think there was any shred of truth in the accusation.

"Hutchinson, you all right?"

Hutch realized he was standing frozen, and the shock must have been showing on his face and in his stance.

_I can't let this show...I've got to get to Starsky and find Dobey._

"Oh, I think we struck a nerve, Dryden." There was dry amusement in Simonetti's voice. "And here I thought Hutchinson would be glad it wasn't him, this time around."

Before he realized it, Hutch was out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

 

***

 

Starsky sat in the corner of an empty cell, trying to fight the anger preventing him from thinking through what had happened.

He had behaved himself during the humiliating booking and fingerprinting process, even giving the shocked uniformed cops a smile and a wink to downplay the seriousness of the charge. But whether they believed the charges or not, Starsky knew the news of his arrest was spreading like wildfire. Even if he made bail, he'd been branded by IA. He felt as if his list of friends and associates had suddenly shrunk to a trusted few.

And his most important ally wasn't going to be in such hot shape once he got the news. Simonetti had even let Starsky waste his one phone call, made to Hutch, whom he found out had already been brought in to Parker Center. Simonetti couldn't have planned his revenge better.

_Hutch's is gonna hear this from the grapevine if Simonetti doesn't rub his nose in it. Not as if that bastard would want someone else to drop his bombs. This is gonna hurt, no matter how Hutch hears it. And unless he's told them who Cummings is, they won't even realize just how devastating the news will be._

Starsky felt sick. He'd screwed up big time, and there was no way to be there with Hutch. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on last night, what the room looked like, and anything Cummings had said or done that could be a clue to what had happened later.

_If Cummings was killed in his room, then it's a sure bet the hotel clerk told them Hutch and I were there. Probably noticed me come the second time, as I wasn't worried about him seeing me. Maybe someone spotted me slipping in the room. My fingerprints are on the doorknob. And... oh, damn...the switchblade!_

He closed his eyes and moaned. If Cummings was killed with that switchblade, Starsky was going to have to dig his way out of a murder rap.

"Starsky!"

Looking up, Starsky saw Dobey in the hallway, with a uniformed officer starting to unlock the cell door. He was dressed in a good suit, and Starsky figured he must have come to the station straight from church. The deadly serious look in Dobey's eyes assured him there would be no hallway chatter. Whatever Dobey had to say wouldn't be said in front of any of the officers down in lock-up.

The uniformed officer led them outside the cell block to another hallway that held the private rooms where prisoners could meet with their lawyers. Starsky had yet to get one.

The first thing he saw as he entered the small room was Hutch, seated at the table with his eyes on his folded hands. For a second, Hutch didn't look up at him, and Starsky found himself frozen at the door, barely registering the fact that Dobey had closed it behind them. Starsky's heart jumped to his throat at the look of confusion and pain he saw when Hutch finally looked up.

Hutch looked pale and worn, as if the last few hours had been days instead. His blue eyes raw with hurt and concern.

_Ah, Hutch. I'm so sorry! I should've told you everything as soon as it happened._

"Sit, Starsky," Dobey ordered gruffly, as he grabbed a chair for himself.

Starsky hesitated, watching Hutch for a reaction. Starsky's stomach relaxed as Hutch pulled out the chair beside him. An obvious invitation, which he accepted gratefully.

"You know how this works just as well as we do," Dobey warned, his voice low. "We're not lawyers, so we have no lawyer-client privileges. If they have a mind to, they can get a judge to order us to reveal what is said in this room."

"They can go to Hell," Hutch said softly, his hand going up behind Starsky to squeeze his shoulder. "It's not them I'm worried about. And we can't work blind if we're going to get Starsky out of here."

Starsky's tenseness lessened at Hutch's touch and his words, and he took a deep breath of relief. He could tell Hutch was still on edge, since there was something unknown between them.

"Do you have a lawyer?" Dobey asked. "Do you need one?'

"When it comes to dealing with IA, it's gonna have to be a good one," Starsky admitted sheepishly. "And as for the lawyers around here, I can't think of any I'm on very good terms with."

"I called Samuel Garner at home. He's agreed to take your case if you want him," Hutch said, surprising Starsky. Starsky had saved Garner's life when he'd gone undercover as a vigilante cop. Starsky had been ordered to kill Garner as a test of his allegiance. While Starsky hadn't had much of a liking for Garner's clients, Garner himself was dedicated to them and took pride in his job. "He's on his way. If he's who you want."

Starsky nodded. Garner would do.

"Good," Dobey said. "We don't have much time here, Starsky, so you need to tell us what went down. Hutch told me you two went down to Royal Court on the Vindell case, and that he stopped to see Cummings after you met Pomell at the club."

Starsky looked over at Hutch, who kept his eyes cast downward. "I told Dobey everything. He knows Cummings was my biological father, and that I met him for the second and last time, yesterday evening."

"You went back, didn't you?" Dobey asked sharply. "Without Hutch."

"Yeah." Starsky sighed, and he could feel his face growing red. He had to be honest now, about everything, or the mess was only going to get worse. "I was ticked off at the way he treated Hutch and wanted to go back and...I don't know...confront him, I guess. I told myself I might be able to help, but I'm not sure I really believed that."

Beside him, he could feel Hutch grow more rigid. Starsky wanted to reach out and touch him in some way, to let him know he was sorry, but he wasn't sure it would be welcomed.

"What have they got on you, Starsky?" Dobey asked gravely.

"The desk clerk may have seen me. Cummings wasn't there when I arrived. Maybe someone saw me jimmy the hotel room door, and — "

"You broke in?" Dobey asked with exasperation. "And, let me guess, left fingerprints in the hotel room? Then there's no way to argue you weren't there at all. If they have a witness to a time and method of entry that's close to the murder, we've got a huge problem."

Starsky swallowed through the growing lump in his throat. "I...I don't know how Cummings was killed, but...I left my prints all over a switchblade he'd been carrying with him."

Hutch looked up sharply, and Starsky saw the stunned surprise in his eyes.

"Cummings came in while I was in the room. He wasn't real thrilled with me being there, and pulled the knife on me. He threw it at the nightstand, and it stuck. He was showing off and wanted to make a point. We talked, and before I left, I pulled it out of the nightstand, closed it, and tossed it on the bed."

"What time did you leave?" Dobey asked. "Anyone see you leave, or see him alive in the doorway?"

"I wasn't there long, but I wasn't watching the time that closely. I got there about nine-thirty or so. Don't know if anyone but the clerk would remember seeing me. Cummings was alive, stretched out on his bed, when I left."

"Did you drive your car?" Dobey asked, knowing full well what the answer was.

Starsky just shrugged sheepishly. What else would he have driven?

"From what I hear, the timing is going to be damn close." Dobey fidgeted in his seat, looking uncomfortable at what he was about to say. He glanced at Hutch, whose elbows were now on the table, his fingers laced, and his chin propped up on his thumbs, looking lost in thought. "Simonetti and Dryden have tried to put a block on all the information coming in, especially since they've made an arrest."

"Too damn quick," Hutch muttered angrily, not looking at either of them.

"You _both_ know that IA has an image problem, both inside and outside the force. Not even considering  Simonetti and Dryden's private feud with you two, IA is going to be very sensitive to any hint that a cop murdered someone and they didn't jump on him as hard, or even harder than any other suspect."

Dobey pointed a finger at them as he got into his lecture. "And, in case you two haven't figured it out, Simonetti and Dryden know darn well which judges don't care for you two. It probably didn't take them more than a few minutes to get that arrest warrant, once they had what they needed from the ME, the lab, and any eye-witness reports."

"We're not stupid, Captain," Hutch said, his voice hollow. "We get it. But we need details."

Starsky looked at Dobey, who shared with him a look of unease. "You sure?" Dobey asked Hutch.

Hutch sighed and sat back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "I need to know. Forget the rest."

Dobey nodded and started to recite the information from memory. "Cummings was found dead in his hotel room at two-thirteen a.m. Someone noticed blood had flowed from under the door to the hallway, and they notified the clerk, who found the body.

"Cummings died from blood loss, from several stab wounds. The ME is still working on the number and order of them, but there were several to the torso. Their first guess is that the one to his heart was one of the earliest, and the others were done to make sure he wasn't getting up again. His body was found on the floor, face down, no defensive wounds on his hands, so he was probably taken by surprise. Preliminary figures on body temperature and the age of the blood lost revealed he'd been dead from three to five hours."

"Was the knife found at the scene?" Starsky asked, knowing the answer.

"It was still in the body. They're pretty certain it's a match for all the wounds."

"With my fingerprints on it." Starsky wiped at his face and sighed.

"They don't know he was my father, unless you told them," Hutch said, a question in his voice.

"I didn't tell them anything except about the case we were working on," Starsky admitted. "Figured I didn't want to show my hand until they showed theirs. I don't plan on telling them anything in the future."

Dobey grunted. "Maybe you should cooperate — "

"No," Hutch said suddenly. "If they think I'm personally involved with the victim, they'll try to tie me into it, too. Since they don't have me in a cell, it means they don't have enough info to put me in one. You can bet they'll be digging for a motive, so we don't have much time. Until they get that information, they can't keep me from working on it on my own."

"Hutch, they're going to be keeping an eye on you," Starsky warned. "And this could really hurt you later, in some way."

"And they won't be watching me, anyway?" Hutch asked a slight edge of anger in his voice. He turned to Dobey. "They know I'm going to be out there, Captain. If I didn't try to prove my partner innocent, they'd either think I was giving up on him, or they'd watch me closer because they'd be sure something was up."

A knock at the door gave them a second's warning before it opened and a young uniformed officer looked in on them. "Sorry, Captain, but there's a lawyer named Samuel Garner here, demanding to see Detective Starsky."

"Fine, son," Dobey answered casually. "Tell Garner I'm in here with his client, and we'll be done in a minute."

The door clicked shut, and Dobey leaned forward, his serious gaze taking them in. "I'm going to put Simmons and Finch on the Vindell case, so stop and give me a quick report on last night, Hutch, before you take some time off. I'm going to tell Simmons and Finch that if they happen to see you in the Royal Court area, to pretend they don't. As for the rest, I'm going to have my hands tied by IA. They're going to block me whenever they can, so don't wait for a miracle from me. At least, not an over-the-counter one. You two need anything from under the counter...."

Starsky felt a small smile come to his face. "Thanks, Cap'n. I think we both know that. You've already done a lot."

Dobey stood and looked at Hutch, who didn't seem inclined to move. "We've got to go now, son. Starsky needs to talk to his lawyer."

"I need a minute." The request was made quietly, and Starsky knew just how much they both needed the time.

Dobey nodded, then stepped outside the door, shutting it softly behind him.

The room was suddenly very quiet and cold. Hutch stood and walked toward the wall, his arms still crossed across his chest in a way that reminded Starsky of someone nursing a wound.

_He's confused. No wonder. If I'd told him about last night, he might've been angry, but he'd have understood and forgiven me. Now...now, I don't know. Does he think I had something to do with Cummings' murder?_

Starsky wanted to explain himself, to go up to Hutch and make him look him in the eyes so he'd see that he'd meant no harm in meddling. But Hutch's stance, his turned back and stiff shoulders, made it clear that he was hanging onto his emotional control by a thread. Hutch needed to do this his own way.

His question seemed to come from a mile away. "Why?"

"I..." Starsky faltered, the lump in his throat making his speech difficult. He swallowed thickly, folding his hands together and leaning on the table top. "I needed to see him. He meant a lot to you, and he hurt you. I wanted him to know that. I thought maybe — "

"You _didn't_ think!" Hutch snapped, his growing anger showing in the hard set of his jaw. "This didn't have anything to do with you. You had _no_ right."

_I felt like I did. At the time._ Starsky clamped his jaw shut, not wanting to defend or interrupt. _What can I say to him, in this short time, to explain that I meant well and was hurting for him? I know he'd understand if we had the time to talk it out, but this has all happened so fast. He had barely gotten used to the first hurt, and now he's lost all hope of knowing his father. He's a victim, and he has the right to be upset._

Hutch was glaring at him, anger making his eyes cold. "Did he say anything about anyone wanting to kill him? Was he in financial trouble? Could it have been drug related, or a loan shark on his tail?"

_No questions about what Cummings said about you? I guess that's a can of worms we'll have to open later,_ Starsky thought sadly. "No, he didn't say anything personal about himself. After he found out I knew you, and that I was there about...well...about you, he pretty much kicked me out."

Hutch took a deep breath, unfolding his arms to rub his face. "Did he look different from Friday night when he was on stage? Different clothes? Any clues to where he'd been before he walked in on you?"

"He was dressed about the same — white shirt, jeans, boots, and a tweed jacket. The jacket was over his left arm when he came in. He opened the knife, then threw it at the nightstand," Starsky said quickly, his mind going back to the scene. "He didn't say where he'd been, and I didn't ask."

"Okay, then what about the switchblade?"

"Seems to be a run on them," Starsky said, thinking about the Vindell case. "Nothing unique about it. He seemed to be comfortable with handling it, and the handle was worn, but the blade was sharp."

"What was in the room? Anything suspicious? Out of place?"

Something was at the edge of his mind, something that had seemed out of place or missing. "I don't think so, but I've got a feeling I'm missing something. Something I thought about at the time."

_What was it that was missing? I looked in the bathroom, saw the bed and the unpacked suitcase... The guitar!_

"He didn't have his guitar with him," Starsky explained. "Cummings was a musician, but there wasn't any guitar in the hotel room. He left the bar with it the first night we saw him, so he probably had his own, right? He came in without it, and frankly, he'd be stupid to leave it there, as easy as those doors were to get through."

"He had a bolt hole, near the club," Hutch said, excitement filling his eyes as he looked at Starsky. "That's why he disappeared so fast after we showed up that night. He didn't have very far to go."

"A second apartment?"

"Or a friend," Hutch said. "Didn't Eddie say that Pomell lived in an upstairs apartment over the club? That there was more than one up there? Maybe there's another side to Cummings that I need to dig into. That'll give me a place to start."

An impatient knock sounded at the door, signaling their time was up.

"Well..." Hutch began awkwardly. "Guess I'd better go if I'm going to get your sorry ass out of this place."

"I'll do all right. Garner and I can give IA a run for their money," Starsky said, putting on a small hopeful smile. "It's my welcome home party that I'm more concerned about."

For a second Starsky didn't think Hutch was going to respond, and he held his breath.

"I know underneath it all, you were trying to take care of me," Hutch said softly. He looked as if the whole world had settled on his shoulders, but there was a softening around his eyes as he looked at Starsky. "I'm just...angry right now. At everyone, I guess. I wouldn't count on strobe lights, fireworks, or a band waiting for you when you get home."

Before he realized it, Hutch had moved toward him and pulled him in for a hug. Starsky held him tightly, feeling almost giddy with relief that Hutch needed it as much as he did.

"But there'll always be a candle in the window, Starsk. There'll always be that."

Hutch pulled away and left the room without looking back, shutting the door softly behind him.

 

***

 

"Hutchinson!"

Hutch paused at the hiss of his name, turning to find Dobey at the door of the janitor's closet, signaling for Hutch to come and join him. Just having left Starsky, Hutch wondered what had happened to make Dobey so furtive.

Dobey closed the door behind them. "As soon as I left the room, I was told to call the chief. He knows we've talked to Starsky and has ordered both of us up to his office for a meeting with him and IA."

"They know Cummings was my father," Hutch guessed, dread filling him. With that connection, there's no telling what IA would make of it. Even if they didn't know, he couldn't afford to be suspended, detained for further questioning, or pulled off the street. Simonetti and Dryden had made the mistake of letting Hutch out of their sight, and he wasn't about to go back to answer any more questions.

"I don't know, but it's a possibility," Dobey admitted. "But I have a feeling IA wants to detain you, get the chief to order you to stay off Starsky's case. They're going to be keeping an eye on you, and if they see your car or, heaven forbid, that thing Starsky drives, near the Royal Court Hotel, they'll do their best to hassle you."

Dobey pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Hutch. "My car's in the shop for the weekend, so I borrowed Cal's. It's a blue, '61 Impala, out on the back lot. It looks like hell, but I don't think he'll mind you borrowing it for a while. I'll tell the chief that I turned around and you were gone. I don't know where the hell you are."

Deeply touched by the gesture, Hutch smiled at Dobey and nodded. "Thanks, Captain. This means a lot."

"Just don't get caught, and don't do something stupid," Dobey said, looking a little embarrassed. "I've got enough trouble with one of you behind bars. Don't make it two!"

 

***

 

Hutch drove down Royal Court a few times before deciding on the best place to park. It wasn't that there was a lack of spaces, the street was mostly deserted. Most of the people there on Sunday morning were either sleeping it off, or cleaning from the night before. Hutch had no doubt that even now Simonetti and Dryden were putting out the word to the local patrol officers to watch for him. He didn't dare visit the murder scene.

He finally chose a spot two blocks from the club. On the way over, he'd gone through all the information he had about Cummings, which wasn't much. While those assigned to his murder were starting from scratch, he was a few steps ahead of them. He planned on taking advantage of the opportunity.

Hutch slouched in the driver's seat, eyes on the street spread out in front of him. It was strange the way he felt about the whole situation. He felt...numb. As if he'd hit his limit and was burnt out. Last night, when he'd taken out his aggression on the body bag, he'd burned up a lot of his anger. Cummings was a murder victim now, and he felt more like a cop than a child who'd lost a parent. He felt like a man whose best friend was in trouble.

_Whatever happened last night between Cummings and Starsky was about me. He shouldn't have butted in. I needed him to be outside of the whole situation, like he was last night when he took me to the gym. Maybe that's why him going to see Cummings behind my back made me mad._

_But Cummings didn't want me in his life. Starsky...Starsky does. And if he can want that after putting up with me all these years, then that's all I need to know about last night. At least where my own feelings are concerned._

He shook himself out of his thoughts. He was wasting time. He had to figure out how he was going to approach Eddie.

_Eddie works the early shift. He can put me in touch with the other musicians at the club. It's a sure bet Pomell won't give me their names and addresses without a warrant, and he won't do any talking. If I can track them down before they talk to anyone else, maybe I can find a place to start. Cummings has been here for at least six weeks that I know of. Whatever he was into that got him killed is probably not too far from where he worked._

_I'll have to be careful about how I handle Eddie. With two murders now tied into the Sunrise Club, he could get too spooked to stick around._

There was something improbable about the two murder victims. Both had ties to the club, both were stabbed to death. They felt interwoven in a way Hutch didn't understand. Yet. If the connection was there, he would find it.

There was a small café between where he'd parked Cal's car and the club. It was after 1:00 so the bar should be open and Eddie should be on shift. He stopped at the café and ordered some food, taking the brown bag with him as he walked into the bar.

Walking in briskly, Hutch went right up to the bar and placed the bag of food on the bar top. He was relieved to find Eddie serving drinks. There were a few people at tables and one customer on a barstool. No sign of Pomell.

"Hey, there you are! Here's the lunch you asked for."

Eddie looked up, startled, as the bag of food landed on the counter. The looks that flashed across the younger man's face were easy to read: recognition, surprise, uncertainty, and confusion.

"What?" Eddie asked, looking at Hutch like he'd lost his mind. "I didn't — "

"Sure you did." Hutch smiled at him, leaning forward so his voice wouldn't carry. "This'll give us a chance to talk, in case any of the customers get nosy. Pomell here?"

"No, he's not," Eddie said sullenly. Hutch could tell Eddie wasn't happy to be talking to a cop again. "Look, I...I don't want to get involved with any of this. Pomell will chew off my ass if he finds out I've talked to you. I need this job."

"So, don't tell him," Hutch said, his eyes on Eddie's face. He could see the fear behind Eddie's eyes, see it in the way his hands seemed to fumble with the glass he was drying. "I need to talk to you, Eddie, and it's either going to be here, now, or I take you down to the station. If I take you downtown, how is Pomell not going to know about that?"

Eddie looked shocked, then seemed to resign himself to the fact that he wasn't going to be able to say no. Hutch, glad Eddie hadn't called his bluff, nodded toward the far corner of the bar, away from the door. Hutch took the bag of food with him, settling in where he could see whoever entered the door, but where he could lean back and blend somewhat into the woodwork if Pomell or a cop should come in the door.

Eddie leaned against the counter, acting as if he were taking some time away from his duties to talk to a friend.

"Look," Eddie said. "I don't know anything else about this Vindell guy. I — "

"What about Cummings? I need to know everything you know about him, and I need to know about the other musicians as well."

Eddie went pale. "Oh, man, I heard about him. Guy up the street was tellin' me about it, just as soon as I unlocked the door. Man, that's really creepy! He was a really nice guy, too."

"What do you know about him?" Hutch asked, trying to hold back his impatience. "Anything. Everything. This is important."

Eddie looked across the room, wringing the bar towel in his hands. Hutch hated to put the young man in this position, to make him uncomfortable, but there was no other way.

"I don't hang out with any of the guys, but Cummings was nice. He actually talked to me like a person, where, to everyone else, I'm just the dumb kid that works days."

Eddie shrugged. "He didn't talk about himself much. Said he had traveled all over, had hit every saloon between New York and San Diego. I think he liked to go to the matinee once in a while, and he and Mrs. Reighter would — "

"Who?" Hutch pounced on the new name.

"Sarah Reighter. She's a lady who lives in one of the apartments upstairs. She's a widow, and she owns the theater down the street."

Hutch was surprised. "One of those porn houses?"

"No, no," Eddie replied, shaking his head at Hutch. "The movie theater. The real one, right in the middle of the block. Mrs. Reighter and her husband inherited that from his parents, and Mr. Reighter had his heart set on keeping it going. He used to come down here all the time before he died. Broke his heart when the X-rated stuff went in. He used to like to talk about how classy this part of town used to be."

"How and when did he die?"

"Heart attack, about a year ago."

"And Sarah Reighter and Cummings were dating?"

"Yeah, they'd come in before Cummings had to play, after seeing a matinee. I hadn't see Mrs. Reighter look that happy in a long time." Eddie smiled, then suddenly looked stricken. "Oh, man, I didn't think about her! This is going to break her heart all over again. She'd barely gotten over Ted's death."

Hutch felt a chill as he took in the information. He and Starsky had parked in front of that same theater only yesterday, and Vindell had had a stub from the same place in his pocket. Hutch felt as if a new door to the truth had suddenly opened in front of him.

"Anything else you can tell me?" Hutch asked. "How close were they? Did he ever stay with her? How did they meet?"

Eddie shrugged. "I don't know. I just saw them in here. I didn't follow them around."

Feeling as if he'd pushed Eddie for as much information as he could, Hutch stood up and picked up the bag of food. "Here. Lunch is on me."

"No," Eddie said, looking relieved that Hutch seemed to be done with him. "You have it. I've got to get back to work."

Outside, Hutch looked around to see if he was being watched, then slipped through the door next to the bar entrance. Like the door on the lower level of Venice Place, it was the entrance to the upper levels of the building. Unlike his apartment, there was a locked wrought-iron door that closed off the stairs to outsiders. There were four mailboxes on one wall, each labeled with a number but no name, and no call button to contact those who lived in the building.

He walked to Cal's car, climbed behind the steering wheel, and broke into the cold food. He wasn't very hungry, but he needed time to think, and there was no telling when he'd get another chance.

_Sarah Reighter. She definitely knew Cummings, but how well? Would she know anything about me, or about what Cummings was up to? Will she be willing to talk to me if she knows I'm a detective, or would she tell me more if she knew I was his son._

He gave up after eating less than half the sandwich. He folded it up in the greasy bag and tossed it to the passenger side floorboard. There was a pay phone just a few yards away, and his best bet was to call her and see if she'd let him in.

The phone book was long gone, so he called information who gave him the number for an "S. Reighter" at the correct address. In a moment, he heard the phone ringing and found himself holding his breath. It rang for almost a minute before it was picked up.

"Hello?" The voice was ragged but soft, the sound of someone who had been crying or was ill.

"Mrs. Reighter?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Detective Hutchinson, and I understand that you knew the late Roger Cummings. I'm sure you've heard the terrible news by now, and I'd like to come up and talk with you."

"Detective?" Hutch could hear the tears in her voice. "I just heard. I...uh...I'm not sure I can — "

"I understand, ma'am," Hutch said quickly. "To tell you the truth, I've not been officially assigned to the case, but you could say I have a...personal interest in it."

"Personal?"

"Yes. I met with Cummings just within the last few days, and...we were related. I'd like to find out the truth about his death. I'm right downstairs. Do you think you could give me a few minutes of your time?"

The silence on the phone was heavy, and Hutch wondered for a moment if she was still there.

"I'll be down in a moment to let you in."

Hutch took a deep breath as he headed for the door to the upper apartments. She was standing behind the wrought-iron inner door as he came in from the street.

Sarah Reighter was a small woman, who practically swam in the simple dress that made her look as if she had once carried more weight. Her hair was the deep, dark black that was seldom natural, and was too harsh for her fair complexion. It was pulled back and tied in an untidy ponytail, as if she'd not given it any attention other than to keep it out of the way. She wore no make-up, and her puffy red eyes looked Hutch up and down as she sniffed and held a handkerchief up to her nose.

"You're the detective? I guess I can see that you could be related," she said, her voice and expression uncertain.

He took out his badge and showed it to her. She seemed to relax a bit. Hutch smiled gently. "Uh...could we...go inside? I'd like to ask you a few questions."

She nodded, then turned around to go up the stairs. Neither of them said a word as they climbed the two stories to her apartment. Windows at the end of the hallway let in light, and at one time someone had divided each of the upper levels into two apartments, with the stairway at the end of the building. Glancing out as he passed, Hutch noticed the front units had a street view, and the ones in the back looked out over the top of a gas station separated from the building by a fence. Neither view was very inspiring.

Mrs. Reighter led him into a third floor apartment that faced the front. Hutch wondered which of the other three belonged to Pomell. The entryway was small and cramped, wallpapered in a style that had gone out ages ago. As she led him into the sitting room, Hutch almost felt as if he'd stepped into a movie from the 1940s. All the furniture, wallpaper, and floor coverings were faded, but in pristine condition.

Sarah waved him over to a couch, while she took a chair by a window. Looking out from where he sat, Hutch could see the top floor of the building across the street, and the top part of a garish neon sign that he knew advertised erotic books and peep shows.

"I just heard about his death, on the radio earlier this morning," she said as she settled in the chair, looking out the window instead of at Hutch. "I guess I should have called the police, but I just..." Her voice cracked, and she looked on the verge of a bout of tears. "It's just been such a shock."

"That's okay, ma'am. I understand. Do you know a reason why someone might have wanted to attack Mr. Cummings? Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

"Roger?" Sarah looked at Hutch then, confusion on her face. "No, I can't imagine anyone wanting to hurt him. He was such a sweet man, and he...we were very fond of each other."

"Can you tell me how you met him?"

"You say you're a relative?"

Hutch smiled at her while trying to figure out how much he was comfortable telling her. "You could say our relationship was...distant, at best."

"Oh. He never mentioned his own family. We seemed to talk about mine all the time. I just assumed he was all alone in the world."

Hutch felt a jab of sorrow. _He didn't mention me. I guess he must have considered himself alone. Or he was too ashamed to tell her about a son whom he'd abandoned, or talk about his reasons for sending the letter._

"How did you met him?" Hutch prodded gently.

"Oh, it was several weeks ago. Since my husband died last year, I've spent a lot of my evenings at the theater. I own the one down the street, you know, the Tripoli. I have a few employees who run the theater itself, a manager and counter help of course, but I like to go down and keep my hand in it. My husband was particular about the upkeep of the building, so I tried to fill his shoes. It's not been easy these last few years, and without Ted, it's been almost more than I can handle. He would be turning in his grave if he could see how many of the old stores have been bought out and turned to smut and filth."

"I can imagine. Is that where you met Mr. Cummings?" Hutch asked, prodding her gently.

"One evening, about six weeks ago, we were showing some of the older films. I wandered into the theater to watch my favorite scene with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers." She smiled a little, then looked up shyly. "Just as they started their dance number, Roger came up to me, offered me a rose, and asked me to dance. I couldn't believe he was serious, and I was so surprised I laughed out loud. He laughed with me, held out his arms, and the next thing I knew we were dancing in the aisle."

"Sounds charming," Hutch said with a smile. "Did you see him much after that?"

"All the time!" She must have realized how that sounded, for she suddenly blushed a bit and seemed flustered. "Well...I don't mean _all_ the time. I'm a respectable woman, Detective. He never spent the night, although he would come up late, after his shift at the bar was over. I'm a bit of a night owl myself, so even if I didn't feel like going down and listening to the band, I enjoyed talking to him afterward. It's hard to believe we've known each other for just a few short weeks. I feel like I've known him for ages."

"Can you tell me what you know about him?" Hutch asked. "Anything about his past, or what he was doing recently, besides playing at the Sunrise Club?"

Sarah leaned back and turned to look out the window again. Hutch wondered if she could see her theater from there.

"Now that I'm asked, I can't really say I knew much about him. He always seemed to steer the conversation back to me. He said once he was a loner and had traveled all his life. When I asked about his family, he said he was an orphan, and had been raised by a childless couple that needed farm help more than they wanted a child. He had a natural talent with musical instruments; he could play by ear anything he heard. When it got so he couldn't stand the farm anymore he walked away from it and never went back. He seemed to consider his whole life just a series of stop-overs."

"Did he say why he'd come to Bay City?"

She shrugged. "Not in particular. I gathered that he had wandered into the city just because it was the next stop on the road."

"Did he come with the band? As a group?"

"No, I don't think he really knew the rest of the group very well," she admitted. "Not that I always knew where he was, but he spent a lot of his time with me, and I can't say I ever saw him do more than exchange a few words with them."

"Did he ever mention any of his plans for the future? How he was feeling?"

Sarah frowned as she looked back over at him. "He didn't come right out and say so, but I got the feeling he was tired. I think he was feeling the years of travel catching up to him."

"How so?"

"He talked about the city as if he were thinking of staying on. Once in a while, he'd mention how nice the weather was, how a musician could find steady work if he was any good, not having to live out of a suitcase and having his own bed waiting for him every night. I thought...well...I thought he was hinting that he wanted to settle down and be with me."

_Was he really ready to settle? Was that on his mind when he wrote the letter?_

"When was the last time you saw him?"

Sarah frowned again and looked at her hands as she fiddled with the handkerchief. "I saw him Friday night. I hadn't given him a key to my apartment, but he did have a key to the door downstairs. The band usually plays until midnight, so I wasn't expecting him at the time."

_That would have been around the time he stormed out of the bar, with me not far behind him. All he had to do was to walk a few steps and open that outside door, then use his key for the inner door. No wonder he seemed to disappear into thin air._

"How did he seem to you? Did he stay long?"

"He seemed...rushed, anxious, and upset all at the same time. He wouldn't tell me why and tried to change the subject when I asked. But he turned the lights off and stood at the window, watching the night crowd as if he were afraid he was being followed. He didn't stay long. Just came over and gave me a kiss, said he had some business to take care of, then he left. It concerned me a bit, because I'd never seen him that way."

She sighed. "Now I wish I'd insisted he talk to me, told me what was going on. Maybe he'd still be alive."

"No one could know that," Hutch said softly, wishing he could turn back the clock not only for Starsky's sake and for his own, but for this woman who had loved so deeply in such a short time. "There may have been nothing you could have done. But maybe something you tell me today could help us find who murdered him."

They were both quiet for a moment, Hutch trying to think of a way to approach her about a question he and Starsky had. He decided to just come right out and ask her.

"I was wondering...did Roger leave anything of his own here? Did he have anything with him when he came up here Friday night?"

Mrs. Reighter's brow furrowed. "Yes. Yes, he did. He left his guitar, said he would get it later. It was his prized possession, and he would usually leave it here when he came by. He hated to leave it in that hotel room. Anything could happen to it there." Sarah took a big breath, as if she were about to cry again and was fighting the urge. "I...I guess the police will want it now, since it's not mine to keep."

"Could I see it?" Hutch asked, feeling a strange mix of excitement and dread at the same time. That guitar was Cummings' bread and butter — and the way to his heart, if he loved music the way Hutch did. That side of the man might be the only one he would ever really understand.

Sarah sobbed into her handkerchief, new tears starting to run down her cheeks and into the sodden cloth. "I...I'm sorry...I can't do this anymore." She stood shakily, and Hutch rose to take her arm and help steady her. "Please..." she whispered, her eyes closed and her whole body shaking.

"Do you want me to call someone for you?" Hutch asked softly, holding her arm as she started toward the bedroom area." You really shouldn't be alone. Is there someplace you could go?"

"My sister is coming. She'll be here in an hour or so. I...I just can't...right now...I just want to be alone and lie down for a while."

He stopped at her bedroom door and watched as she went to the guitar case propped up in the corner. She placed her hand on the top of it, then turned to Hutch while dabbing at her eyes. "Please take care of it. It's all he had."

Hutch nodded and walked a few steps into the room until he reached the case. Lifting it carefully, he nodded at Mrs. Reighter and left her apartment with it.

As he left the building, he had to force himself to walk and move casually while his heart leapt in his chest. This guitar was evidence in a murder case he wasn't supposed to be working on, and if caught with it by IA he could lose not only any important clues it contained, but the only part of his biological father he'd ever had in his possession.

The walk to Cal's car seemed to take forever. As soon as he reached it, he put the case carefully in the back seat and debated where to go next.

_I need to open it, but I can't do that here. Not out in the open. It's too long a drive home, and I may only have tonight to work on this case before Simonetti and Dryden think of a way to stop me. Even Huggy's is too far away._

_I can't go back to the hotel, because the night clerk might recognize me, but it's not the only dump on the strip. Simonetti can't stop me if he can't track me down._

Hutch pulled into traffic and soon parked in front of an old boarding house that must have had been built when the neighborhood was new. It looked filthy in the bright light of day, but he wasn't planning on staying long.

He headed inside with the guitar case, certain no one would notice or care, that he had no other bags. The clerk didn't even look up at him when he asked for a room, and the transaction took only a minute.

The room was shabby and smelled of old cigarette smoke, with an old spread on the bed that looked as stiff as the dust-coated curtains. He made sure the door was locked behind him and set the case down on the mattress. It was a generic hard case, with scuff marks, signs of repair around the hinges and the handle, and stickers from all over. Hutch had no way of knowing if Cummings had had it for years or if he'd purchased it used. He undid the latch and opened it, then took a moment to look over the acoustic guitar inside.

It was a beautiful instrument. The back and sides were rosewood, the soundboard a thin sliver of spruce that was a golden contrast to the ebony fingerboard. Strong and elegant, the fingerboard was evenly spaced with silver frets and matching tuning keys. It was a simple design that wouldn't catch anyone's eye as being unusual or special, but it looked like quality nonetheless.

Hutch lifted the guitar and held it as though he were playing it. He ran his fingers over the wood; its velvety texture felt almost warm and alive. He brushed his fingers across the strings and fingered a chord, listening to the sound as it reverberated through the instrument and out into the room.

_It has a richer sound than mine. I can feel where his fingers have worn away part of the ebony and taken some of the polish off the soundboard. He's had this a long time. I'll bet it's almost as old as I am. Was this his first and only real love?_

Hutch laid it carefully on the bed and turned to examine the case. Inside, the soft black lining in the neck area looked strange. The area for the neck of the guitar, which was usually empty, was filled. While it might not be an unusual design, it wasn't one he'd seen before. He felt around for some sort of storage area, feeling nothing more than hard case and unbroken lining. But just over the edge, where the body of the guitar would rest, he felt something move when he pushed. Gripping the section with his fingers, he held his breath as part of the case pulled away, revealing a hidden compartment.

His heart pounding, Hutch realized the compartment was stuffed with papers. Hoping these weren't just Cummings' collection of music sheets, he pulled out the whole bundle. There were many different types of paper. Some were folded several times, and many were yellowed with age. He reached back into the opening, and toward the bottom felt something more. Emptying the compartment, he found several black-and-white photographs. He felt a sudden chill as he looked at the first.

_It's Mom!_

The young attractive teenager looked at the camera with a smile. Hutch had seen several pictures of his mother at that age, and there was no question who this was. He swallowed thickly — next to her was a young man, whom Hutch recognized as a younger Roger Cummings.

His hand was shaking. He studied his mother, saw how happy she looked, and wondered if it was taken before or after she had run off with Cummings. He turned the picture over, and in sloppy handwriting in pen, it read: Kenneth Robert Cummings.

Hutch remembered fully the first time he'd seen that name. It had been on his original birth certificate and had led to him questioning both his parents. Cummings had been crossed out harshly, and "Hutchinson" was written underneath it in pencil. There was also a number separated by hyphens. His birthdate.

He looked at the picture of Cummings and his mother once again. _She looks so happy, so much in love. So young and naive. He's not much older. I wonder how long he'd been on his own by then. That is, if anything he told Mrs. Reighter about his past were true._

He glanced through the other pictures, but didn't recognize anyone from their faces or the names on the backs.

_No pictures of me. Guess I shouldn't be surprised._

Hutch reluctantly put the pictures down. He didn't have time to ponder the past.

The next item that caught his eye was a savings register from a bank Hutch didn't recognize. He opened it and saw a balance of almost forty thousand dollars, at a bank in San Francisco. At the top, "Andy Vind" was typed in, and according to the dates of the deposits, they had started almost a year ago.

_Who is Andy Vind, and why would Cummings have his bank book? Is this a fake identity he used?_

He picked up the bundle of papers and opened them. His heart jumped as he realized what he had. It was a partnership contract for a company called "WC Investors, Inc.," signed by John Pomell and Abner Vindell.

_Well, well. It looks like Pomell knew Vindell a lot better than he let on. The contract was signed about a year ago, when Abner Vindell had opened his account._ Hutch thought back to what Mrs. Van Cleave had said about her murdered employer. _That was about the time Vindell started to act funny. I wonder...?_

He looked at the signature of the account holder on the inside of the savings passbook. The signature of Andy Vind and Abner Vindell were the same, even down to the strange flourish on the first "A" in both names.

"So Vindell did have a secret account," Hutch muttered. "Why did Cummings have these documents, and did someone kill him to get them back?"

The last piece of paper was regular stationery. The spidery handwriting didn't match that from the letter Hutch had received from Cummings. It seemed to be a list of private information about Sarah Reighter. Besides the basics, such as her address and phone number, there was the date of her husband's death, a list of friends and relatives, her favorite colors, names of restaurants, and underlined was her listed net worth and the properties she owned, including the theater across the street.

_Was Cummings supposed to get close to Sarah Reighter? Is that how he was able to sweep her off her feet so quickly?_

There was so much to consider, and Hutch wished Starsky were there to talk it out with. He got up and walked to the window, needing to think about the information he'd discovered. Leaning against the window frame, he could just see a sliver of the street from where he was, and even that small section was filled with advertisements for adult fare.

Years ago, this part of town had probably had a taste of everything, such as "mom and pop" grocery stores, apartments, and dry cleaners, as well as the bars and nightclubs that seemed such a part of every block in the city. Over the years, the adult industries seemed to have exploded, encouraged by the city commission changing the zoned areas so the adult stores could move in. A few areas, like this one, had seen more and more of their ordinary, everyday type of businesses sold out, and the porn studios and strip clubs go in.

"Looks like Sarah and her husband were fighting a losing battle," Hutch mumbled to himself. "I'll bet she's been inundated with buy-out offers."

The name "WC Investors, Inc." flashed through his mind, and he suddenly knew where he had heard that name before. His stomach tightened.

_I know I've heard that name in connection with those Zoning Commission hearings a few years ago, when they opened a lot of new areas to the porn industry. Wasn't WC Investors mentioned as one of those seeking the rezoning?_

_But that doesn't make sense. This area is already zoned for adult business. Why would anyone want that theater badly enough to get someone to court a lonely widow? No doubt the place would eventually go out of business on its own._

Hutch slammed his fist on the window frame, feeling like the answer must be right in front of him, yet he was too dense to recognize it.

"I've got to get this to Dobey."

He folded up the paperwork and put it back into the hidden compartment in the case. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped the picture of Cummings and his mother into his pocket.

He was locking the door behind him, guitar case in hand, when his head exploded and darkness fell.

 

***

 

Pomell slammed the door to his office, wishing he had someone in front of him he could beat on. He hated cops, and talking to them was like walking barefoot across a field of broken glass. First, those two cops somehow traced Vindell to the bar; then just now, he'd had to talk to two different detectives about Cummings' murder. If they ever tied the two murders together, he could be in real trouble.

_Damned cops are crawling all over the place! If those idiots don't find those papers soon, the cops will. Where the hell did Cummings hide them?_

It had been bad enough to have those two cops, Starsky and Hutchinson, come around to ask about Vindell. He'd been able to brush them off, but it had taken his best effort not to react to the fact that Vindell had been traced to the bar. He'd told Dayton and Kincaid where Vindell would be, had ordered them to take him out and sink him, but they'd been interrupted at the scene and had left Vindell's body in the parking lot.

_Those cops never should have traced him to this place. It had to be because Dayton and Kincaid screwed up. I swear, as soon as this blows over I'm having those two taken care of! First they don't get rid of Vindell like they were ordered to, then they kill Cummings before finding out where the damn papers are hidden!_

_If I didn't need them to finish this, I'd ice them myself._

But he did need them. He didn't know how Cummings had gotten the papers he'd been using to blackmail Vindell, but he needed them back before anyone else found them. He now had too much at stake to let anyone find out how he and Vindell had had planned to take over this whole area. He hadn't expected Dayton and Kincaid to kill Cummings over a red herring.

_At least it's being blamed on that cop. Now if they can get into Mrs. Reighter's place and see if the papers are there, we might get through this yet. Cummings had to stash them **somewhere.**_

His door was suddenly thrown open, and as he turned to shout at the person who'd dared to interrupt him, he gritted his teeth when he saw it was Dayton. Dayton didn't look happy.

"Did you find them?" he asked, after pulling Dayton into his office and slamming the door. "Did she have the papers?"

"She won't leave!" Dayton whined. A small ferret-like man, he wasn't much to look at, but he was wicked with a knife. "And she had a visitor. He left with Cummings' guitar case."

"His guitar?" Pomell thought about the possibilities. "Did you follow him? We need to get — "

"We got to him, but he only had the guitar and an old picture," Dayton said, wincing as he saw the exasperation on Pomell's face. He started talking faster. "We put him in the storage room before we searched him. We didn't find the badge until — "

" _What!_ He's got a badge?"  Pomell asked with an angry hiss. He grabbed Dayton's arm and shoved him back against the door, hard enough to make the man wince. "I _just_ had two cops in here asking me about Cummings, and you kidnap another _cop_ and bring him _here_? Are you _crazy_?"

"But we didn't know! I swear he don't look like a cop! We figured if Mrs. Reighter talked to him; he must be someone Cummings knew."

Pomell clenched his teeth, trying to control his anger long enough to figure out his next move. "No one saw you snatch him?"

"No! I swear!" Dayton looked scared. "We grabbed some sheets and wrapped him up, then took him downstairs in one of those laundry carts. Took him in to the storeroom the same way. Kincaid hit him pretty good, so he's still out. He'll never know who grabbed him."

Pomell shoved Dayton aside and threw open the door. The storage room was the last room down the hallway, right next to his office. His heart was pounding at the thought of how close the police had been, while some stranger was being thrown into the back room.

_I can't believe these idiots! They must have missed the cops out front by seconds. If I'd taken them to my office like they wanted, to talk about Cummings, the whole thing could have exploded in my face._

Pomell shoved open the storeroom door, apparently startling Kincaid, who looked up in surprise from going through their victim's pockets. He pushed Kincaid aside and looked down at their prisoner as Dayton came in and closed the door behind them.

The cop, on his side, with his hands tied behind him and a gag in his mouth, looked to be out cold. Kincaid had hit him hard, splitting his head enough that blood was still trickling down the man's face. The sheet under him was stained with blood where it had covered his head. Pomell used a foot to push him over, then kicked the cop hard in the ribs, watching for any signs that he was playing possum. The man didn't twitch.

_It's Hutchinson! It was his partner that got arrested for Cummings' death. We lucked out that time. If they had the papers, I'd be under arrest now, and this guy wouldn't be snooping around trying to get his partner out of jail._

_I need to get this guy out of here. There's no telling what he saw before they grabbed him, and I can't let the cops get to Dayton and Kincaid just yet. Not until I can make sure they've found the papers and they can't say a word that leads back to me._

Pomell took a deep breath, his mind racing. "You said he had the guitar?"

"Yeah, it's over there," Kincaid said, pointing to a corner. Pomell could see the case propped over in the corner, almost hidden behind one of the many boxes that filled the large room.

"Nothing in it?"

"No, we looked," Dayton said quickly.

"Bring it to me," Pomell demanded. _Cummings was smart. Too smart for his own good._

Dayton brought the case over to him. Pomell opened it, recognizing the instrument as Cummings' own. Lifting it up, he looked it over, then took it by the neck and, with a grunt of effort, slammed it down onto the corner of a wooden crate.

The sound of splintering wood echoed throughout the storeroom, making Dayton and Kincaid wince and step back. Pomell slammed it again, watching as the thin delicately assembled instrument came apart in pieces and shards.

There was nothing inside. He threw it toward the case.

"He have a car?"

"Yeah. Got the keys to it, too," Dayton said.

"Good. I want you to get rid of him," Pomell ordered, glaring at both men. "You take him out in his car and get rid of him like you were supposed to get rid of Vindell. You take his badge and his gun, and you toss it in with him. Then get back here and we'll have a talk with Mrs. Reighter. If she had the guitar, she could have the papers as well and not know it."

"What about the guitar?" Kincaid asked.

"Toss it!"

With that, Pomell stormed out of the storage room. He had some calls to make and some future customers to placate. If certain people got too nervous, all his careful plans could go down the drain. Not to mention his safety, if someone thought he knew too much.

_As soon as this dies down, I'm going to buy that theater, even if I have to twist that old lady's arm to get her to sign the papers. If Cummings couldn't charm her out of it, then we'll have to do it the hard way. Once I get that dump, I'll own every building on both sides of the street._

_One way or another, when that Zoning Commission votes against opening any more locations for porn shops, then this whole block'll be worth a fortune to those Las Vegas guys. They'll pay millions to buy me out and set up house under as many assumed names as they want. I'll be **long** gone before the city realizes that a famous mob family has moved in, and are making themselves at home._

 

***

 

Starsky lay on the bare mattress, arms crossed and knees bent. Dobey and Garner had made it known they would both throw fits if he was thrown in with the other prisoners, so he'd been put into "lockdown." Usually a place where they housed problem prisoners, it consisted of a small cell with a thin mattress on a built-in platform, and a small metal toilet.

Starsky knew even now Garner was going to bat for him. He'd taken down the particulars of Starsky's last meeting with Cummings and would go with him when it came time for Starsky's bail hearing, which should be sometime tomorrow. Making bail for Murder One would be beyond Starsky's means unless Garner could get the judge to lower it, or even get him released on his own recognizance.

_Unless Hutch can come up with all the answers before then. I know he must be out there digging around, but it's got to be hard on him. He's under a lot of pressure, and who can he trust? Dobey can only do so much for him, now. I just wish he wasn't out there alone._

Hutch going into this mess, without back-up, was Starsky's biggest worry. For himself, he couldn't believe they could make the charge stick. Starsky hadn't met Cummings before, and he had an explanation for his fingerprints on the murder weapon. He knew his arrest had been orchestrated by Simonetti and Dryden as payback for the way he and Hutch had embarrassed them when they'd tried to arrest Hutch. At his arraignment tomorrow, he was certain the judge would release him.

_But what kind of trouble could find Hutch by then?_

Starsky looked up as a guard and Simonetti came to his cell door. He glared at Simonetti, sat up with his arms crossed, and waited as the guard unlocked the door. Simonetti walked in as if he owned the place.

"I'll let you know," Simonetti said to the guard, not even looking at the man as he locked the door behind him and left. Simonetti's eyes were hard and calculating, and Starsky returned his glare, measure for measure.

"Comfortable, Starsky?" he said with a sneer.

Starsky kept his voice calm, letting his anger show in the clench of his jaw and the flash of his eyes. "You wanna talk? Call my lawyer."

"And why would an innocent man need a lawyer?" Simonetti took a couple of steps toward him. "If you have nothing to hide — "

"Can it, Simonetti," Starsky snapped. "I know all the mind games just as well as you do. Probably better, since Hutch and I actually hit the streets to find the bad guys, while you IA guys sit around all day, waiting to see who you can knife in the back."

"Nothing has made me happier than catching you with your pants down, Starsky. I knew sooner or later you'd screw up, and I'd be the one to nail your ass to the wall," Simonetti hissed. "And as soon as we find Hutchinson, maybe we'll have both of you off the street for good."

_Then they haven't caught up with Hutch. Good. Simonetti must be worried about losing this case, or he wouldn't be here, trying to goad me into a fight._

Starsky gritted his teeth and glared back at Simonetti, wanting more than anything to get up and meet the man face to face, but he knew that's what Simonetti was counting on.

"You're wasting my time," Starsky said casually. "If you've got a personal problem with me, why don't you bring it to my face instead of pretending you've got something on me. Until then, why don't you talk to my lawyer? I'm sure he'd love to hear from you."

"Talk to us now, or at the trial. It's your funeral," Simonetti said, turning back to the door and signaling the guard. He gave Starsky an evil smile. "Literally. Just give the word when you're ready to talk, and maybe we can cut a deal for manslaughter."

Starsky gave Simonetti a smile, watching as he was let out of the cell.

_Watch your ass, Hutch. They're after both of us this time._

 

***

 

The car jerked and lurched, making Hutch struggle to keep the contents of his stomach down. Between the gag and the sheet over his face, he could too easily choke to death. His head still hurt, the motion of the car making the pounding grow even worse. He didn't think his ribs were broken, but they burned savagely as he twisted and pulled at the cords around his wrists. They were loose, but not loose enough.

He had no idea how long he'd been out. He had woken up, hurting and nauseous, in cramped darkness. It had taken him a few minutes to realize he was in the trunk of a car.

Since then, he'd been trying to get loose. Various items poked him or had sharp edges that dug at him from every angle. If he couldn't get the ropes loose, he'd hoped to find something he could use as a weapon, but being wrapped up in the sheet hampered his movements.

He knew his time was running out. The sounds of traffic had changed with the feeling of the road underneath. He could tell they'd left the highway when the road got rougher.

Twisting himself once more, his hands were suddenly outside the sheet. He felt around frantically. His fingers felt a handle of some kind, and he grabbed it in his right hand. Feeling the item with his other fingers, he discovered he had a screwdriver.

Careful not to drop it as the car bounced on uneven ground, he turned it around and stuck the shaft between his wrists and the cord that bound his hands. He twisted his hands once again, holding on to the screwdriver and using it to help stress the thin rope. Then, just as he was sure it would never break, he felt it give, and the cord started to rip.

As soon as his hands were free, he fought the sheet, pulling it away from him, gasping, but not stopping, as he pulled it off the new scab on his re-sealed wound. Ignoring the new trickles of blood, his fingers shaking with urgency, he removed the gag from his mouth.

The air was hot and musty inside his cramped prison, and it seemed to accentuate the pounding in his head. He was working on the cord at his feet when the car started uphill, then strained a bit. Suddenly, it reached a peak and started to roll downhill, forcing him more toward the front of the car.

Hutch heard a door open and slam then a thudding sound, and the car started rolling faster and faster.

He tried to brace himself, confused about what was going on. The car jerked to a sudden stop, and he heard a loud splash. A second later the car started to roll again, and Hutch could hear the sound of moving water.

_They're sinking the car!_

Frantic now, he rolled on his back, tearing away the last of his bonds. Ignoring the pain and nausea, he pushed his head and shoulders to the very back of the trunk space and drew his knees to him as best he could.

Holding his breath, hearing the water start to bubble and gurgle up through the underside of the car, he kicked at the back seat.

The jolt almost knocked him out. He bit his tongue hard, hoping the pain would keep him conscious. He kicked again and again, as rapidly and as hard as he could manage, hearing the sounds of running water as it took over the front seat, then the back.

The water touched his heels first, filling the trunk and soaking his legs as it dragged at them. It was cold, stealing his breath and making his heart pound frantically. He had only seconds left now.

The water was moving faster and faster. The car was being sucked under, and he felt it shift sideways. The sounds of the current against the car was loud, hiding the sound of his grunts as he beat at the back seat frantically.

Something gave, and through the water he could feel his foot slip through an opening. Just as the freezing water rose to his shoulders, threatening to take the rest of his air, he kicked again.

 

***

 

Dayton and Kincaid sat in their car at the top of the hill and watched as the blue automobile was pulled farther and farther down the river. It hadn't gone down quickly, like the last time they'd dumped a body, but had twisted and turned as the current grabbed at it. They both gave a great sigh of relief as the car turned on its side, then disappeared under the fast-moving water.

"I didn't think that damn thing was ever gonna sink," Kincaid grumbled worriedly, playing with the switchblade he liked to carry with him at all times. He rolled the closed blade handle between his palms as if trying to calm himself. "We should've done it back at that other place. I think it's deeper back there."

"You saw those cars!" Dayton said, looking at Kincaid with disgust. Kincaid was the most nervous guy Dayton had ever worked with, which he figured was why Kincaid was a master with a knife. Small, ugly guy like him probably survived on the street, and in jail, because of that talent, but his fidgeting quickly got on Dayton's nerves. "How were we supposed to sink a car there with people campin' and fishin' in the area? No telling who would've been watching us from the trees and bushes. This place worked just as well."

"You'd better be right, or we'll all end up joining that cop at the bottom of the river." Kincaid gave Dayton a worried look, as if he was ready to bolt at any moment. "I don't think we ought to trust Pomell anymore, Dayton. I got this weird feeling that he'd turn on us as soon as pay us, and I'm not going back to jail, Dayton, I swear I won't!"

"Will you calm down!" Dayton snapped. Keeping Kincaid calm was quickly becoming more and more troublesome. "Look, no one's going to jail. We took care of Vindell and that Cummings guy. The cops don't have any idea who did Vindell, and you heard they arrested that cop for the Cummings hit. You threw the cop's stuff in after him, right?"

"Of course I did," Kincaid said, giving Dayton an angry glare. "You saw me."

"Then there's nothing to tie us into this one, either." Dayton threw his car into gear and started down the rough trail back to the main road. "As far as anyone is concerned, this cop just disappeared forever. Now, let's get back. Pomell's got an old lady we need to see to."

 

***

 

Eddie Drake carefully lowered the heavy box he'd just pulled off the high shelf to the storage room floor. He'd been sent in by Rudy to start stocking the bar before his shift was over, and was going to be glad to get it finished so he could leave. Mr. Pomell had been in a bad mood ever since those cops had come in to question him about Cummings and his employment history.

_First they come in to ask him about Vindell, then Cummings. No wonder he's been fit to be tied all afternoon. He hates cops. And if he knew I'd talked to those other two..._

He shook his head, pulling out the bottles he needed and setting them to one side. Something on the floor caught his eye, and he bent down to look at it. It was a dark, rusty looking smear. Leaning close, he caught his breath as he saw several fine blond hairs embedded in the substance.

_Blood?_ Eddie got a chill at the thought, his heart quickening. _What's been going on back here?_

He jumped, heart in his throat, as a voice echoed thinly through the room. He couldn't quite make out the words, but he could hear the frustration and anger in Pomell's voice.

_There's a vent up there. This box must've been covering it._

Curiosity and excitement took over, and he stepped back up on the stool, leaning toward the hard-to-see vent.

"I'm telling you, that cop's taken care of!" Pomell's voice was thin, but clear. "I'm making sure they don't ever find him, let alone trace him to me."

_A cop was "taken care of?"_ Eddie found his heart pounding and felt frozen in place. _They won't ever find him? The blood and hair on the floor must've belonged to that Detective Hutchinson. If Pomell finds out I helped them_ —

Eddie took a deep breath, realizing he was starting to tremble. A loud bang from the vent and the hallway made Eddie jump, his heart in his throat.

_He's left his office! What if he knows I was listening? Should I go back to the front and pretend I didn't hear anything?_

He knew it wouldn't work. He could never act like nothing had happened when he felt as if he was in danger of being discovered any second.

_I've got to go to the police and tell them. But how do I convince them?_

He didn't know what he would say, but he knew one thing he could do. Taking a handkerchief out of his back pocket, he carefully covered the stain on the floor. Then, getting behind one of the bigger crates, he pushed it out of a corner and covered it. Now, if the cops believed him and came to inspect the place, the evidence would still be there.

He pushed open the back door, looking around to make sure Pomell wasn't lurking outside. He was going to just leave and not go back, forgetting about retrieving his jacket or any other personal items he had inside. He would walk down the alley, past his regular bus stop, and make his way downtown. If he knew who to talk to, he'd call them, but he was afraid no one would take him seriously.

Striding quickly past the various dumpsters for all the different businesses, he noticed a piece of wood that seemed to be inlaid with some sort of silver pieces. He picked it up, feeling as if he recognized it from somewhere.

_It's_ _part of a guitar,_ he realized as his imagination filled in the rest of the shape. _I've seen this before._

Glancing around, seeing no one watching, he opened the lid of the dumpster and looked inside. He gasped as he saw various pieces of the broken instrument scattered on top of the other garbage. And at the back, half hidden by a greasy bag, was a case.

_Cummings' guitar and case!_

Feeling as if he were being spied upon, he dragged a full trash can close to the dumpster and stood on it. He reached in and started to collect all the broken pieces he could find.

_They'll have to listen to me now! I have proof!_

 

***

 

Hutch vomited onto the rocks, adding more water to the slime at the river's edge. His head hurt, echoing the aches and pains from the rest of his body. He knew he should move, crawl away from the current that tugged at his feet as if reluctant to let him go.

_Too...exposed. I've got to...find a place to hide._

Every bit of his energy had been exhausted in the blind scramble to get his head above water, then find his way to the bank of the river. He had burned adrenaline inside the car, using as much strength as he could muster to pull himself through its submerged interior. He had searched through the dim, dirty water as the car was pulled deeper into the river, frantic to find a door or a window. The car had started to roll around him, and he'd lost all sense of direction. Somehow, he'd found a broken window and pulled himself out, letting the current drag him away from the car as he tried to reach the surface.

He'd been too tired to do much more than keep his head above water, too weak to fight the current. He didn't know how far he'd drifted, but if they saw him escape, he had no strength left to fight them. They would just have to throw him in the water and he wouldn't last a minute.

Hutch opened his eyes and tried to blink away the water and mud he felt caked into his pores; the taste in his mouth was of dirt and grit. He had been swept into a rocky outcrop, the stones under his cheek and chest feeling harsh and bruising.

There was something green in front of him, but he found it hard to focus. It took him a moment to see that it was a bush of some kind. If he could get to it, if he could get out of sight, he could then hide and rest.

_A little more. Not safe here. I've just got to move a little more._

He tried to move. Then tried again, his limbs not responding as they should. It seemed to take forever to push himself up to his hands and knees. Everything hurt. Panting, he held still for a moment, letting the water drip from his face, hair, and clothing as he gathered his strength for his next move.

Glancing up, trying not to move too fast and make himself sick again, he saw a line of trees and various bushes and other plants that would give him some cover.

_I just have to stand up...get to the woods. Now! I have to do it now!_

He took a deep breath, then ignored the pain and trembling in his muscles to push to his feet. His gut wrenched and the world started to spin, but he moved forward.

_Do it...move...get there and I can rest._

He felt the world slipping away, until he had only a narrow tunnel of vision and the whoosh of water filling his head. He threw himself forward, feeling, as if from a distance, the whip of leaves and branches that raked across him as he fell forward. He felt dirt, leaves, and the softness of grass under his body, smelled the warmth of fertile soil under his face before he rolled into the dark fog and floated off into his own dark night.

 

***

 

Starsky jerked awake at the sound of someone at his cell door. Somehow, he'd drifted off, not expecting anyone to bother him until the dinner break.

_Simonetti_ _, back for round two?_ he thought, rubbing his eyes.

He was surprised to see Dobey standing behind the guard who was unlocking his door.

"You're out, Starsky," Dobey rumbled as he entered the cell. "Garner is with the DA right now, and they're dropping all murder charges, although they still want to talk to you about what went on last night. IA is still screaming for answers about your involvement with Cummings."

He waved a paper at Starsky who took it. A quick glance told him it was a copy of some sort of contract. "We've got enough of a tie from Pomell to Cummings _and_ Vindell to take the heat off you."

Starsky smiled and handed the pages back to Dobey. "Did Hutch find this?" His heart sank as he saw Dobey's face fall. There was a touch of worry behind his eyes. "Is he okay? Where is he?"

Dobey turned, waving away the uniformed officer. When he turned back, the worry was all over his face. "I haven't heard from him."

Starsky felt that chill grow into a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. "Since when?"

Dobey sighed. "Since right after we saw you this morning. I gave him Cal's car, and he hasn't checked back since. We've got Pomell in for questioning, and there's a suspicion that he's had a cop taken out over this. We found a spot in his storage room with blood on it, and blond hair. I've got _everyone_ looking for him."

Starsky swallowed through a lump in his throat. "Get me out of here, Captain. We've got work to do."

Dobey grabbed his arm as he started to move past. Dobey looked uncomfortable with what he was about to say. "I had to tell them. They know about Cummings and Hutch and what went down last night between you and him."

Looking up into Dobey's eyes, Starsky saw the regret and uncertainty there.

_We're always leaving you holding the bag for us, aren't we, Captain? If you needed to tell them everything, then you did what you thought best._

"You're our best back-up, Cap'n," Starsky said, giving Dobey a nod. "Always have been. Let's go find Hutch, then we can rip these cases apart."

 

***

 

As Starsky collected his personal items from booking, Dobey filled him in on Pomell. Pomell had refused to cooperate and had called his lawyer as soon as he hit the station. Starsky remembered the hatred in his eyes when he and Hutch had approached him.

_He's not going to say anything that's going to tie him into Vindell, Cummings, or Hutch. Not unless we get something, or someone, that'll make him start sweating for a plea bargain._

That left Eddie.

Starsky gave Eddie a smile as he entered the small room where he was being questioned. Eddie smiled back, but he looked like he was about to be paraded in front of a firing squad, and Starsky couldn't blame him.

Dobey had told him how Eddie had come into the station, with the guitar case in tow, asking to see Starsky and Hutchinson's boss. He had been directed to the squadroom, and after convincing a couple of detectives that a cop was in danger, Dobey had been pulled out of another meeting.

The case practically fell apart on Dobey's desk, revealing the hidden compartment. The discovery of the papers had not only resulted in Starsky's release, but had initiated a warrant for a lab team to take a look at Pomell's storage room. They'd know within the hour if the blood was Hutch's type.

"Hey, Eddie," Starsky said, sitting down across from him. "I'm glad you're here. I know you've been over this with my captain, but I need you to tell me how you found Cummings' guitar and what you overheard."

Eddie sighed, then sat back in his chair and told him how Hutch had visited the club again, and that he'd told him about Mrs. Reighter. He then told Starsky how he'd later overheard Pomell while he was in the storage room. When he related what Pomell had said about a cop "being taken care of" Starsky tried not to let the worry show on his face.

Eddie shrugged and looked at Starsky with uncertainty. "I knew it would be my word against Pomell's. All he had to do was call me a liar and nothing would happen. I thought if I could save the evidence, they'd take me seriously enough to check it out. Then, on the way out, I found a piece of Cummings' guitar outside a dumpster — "

"In back of the Sunrise Club?" Starsky asked.

"No, a couple doors down. But I recognized it right away. Cummings let me hold it one night and said he'd give me lessons." Eddie sighed. "I can't believe all this was happening around me. You hear about this in the news, but it never sounds like something that would happen in real life."

"Yeah, I know." Starsky leaned forward and lowered his voice. "We really appreciate the help, kid, but I need you to think about some of the other guys you work with, or people that hang around Pomell. What about the other bartenders? Delivery guys? Any idea who he was talking to on the phone?"

"I have no idea," Eddie said quickly. "But there are two guys that hang around the club sometimes, and I'm not sure what they do. He even lets them have a tab at the bar, with a limit, and I know he sends them out on errands. The only names I ever heard were Dayton and Kincaid."

"You saw them today?"

"They were in once, this afternoon, then left."

"Before or after my partner talked to you."

"After. They just missed him. They went to the back, then left again. I have to admit, though," Eddie said apologetically. "I can't really say how often they came by or if they came back this afternoon. They would come in the back entrance as well as the front.

_Dayton and Kincaid. It's a place to start._

The door opened and a serious looking Dobey signaled for Starsky to come out of the room.

"Take it easy, Eddie," Starsky said, giving him a smile he didn't feel. "Just tell the officer outside if you need anything."

Starsky joined Dobey out in the hallway.

"It's the same type," Dobey said. Starsky knew he was talking about the blood in the storage room. "Simmons and Finch have talked to Mrs. Reighter, and she said Hutch had been there, then left with the guitar. Her sister arrived, and she's been asleep the rest of the afternoon. So now we know where Hutch was up until that point."

"Eddie gave me some names," Starsky said as he absorbed the new information. "We can run them, but I've got a feeling they're paid hoods. If they work for Pomell, they'd be the ones who have Hutch. They could be on their way back to the club right now."

"Simmons and Finch are down at the club now. I'll let them know to pack things up and hang back, then wait for you. I've already told the motor pool to pull out a car for you. The keys are waiting downstairs."

"I think we're gonna need Eddie's help this time. I'll need to bring him with me. He knows these two guys by sight, and they'd probably recognize me."

Dobey's eyebrows rose. "You think he's up to it?"

"I don't know, Cap'n, but if we can catch those two guys by surprise, maybe we can get something out of them before they realize we're looking for them."

"It's worth a try." Dobey sighed. "Go talk to him. Let's hope the kid is a good actor, for Hutch's sake."

 

***

 

Hutch felt horrible, as if he were being smothered under a heavy wet blanket that couldn't move. He tried to remember where he was, and a flash of smothering under a sheet made him jerk, his heart racing.

_Trapped...got to get out...._

Eyes open, he tried to focus on the area around him, tried to move limbs that felt cold and stiff.

Slowly, he realized his face was in the mud. He moved his head to one side, which helped him breathe better, but it made his head pound a little harder and the muscles in his back and neck protested the movement.

He was cold. Very cold. He could hardly focus his eyes, but he realized he was in a soft, dark area, and his clothing was wet.

_I was in the river. They'll be looking for me. I've got to get some help. Have to let Starsky know...._

He remembered then how he'd ended up in the river, and that Starsky couldn't help him. And he'd lost the evidence.

_They can't get away with it._ His thoughts were coming slowly, through a mist of pain. _Starsky is depending on me._

With effort, Hutch pulled his arms to his chest, then he pushed up, rolling on a hip until he was in a seated position. He rubbed his face, avoiding the area on the left side of his head that felt like an open wound. Looking at his fingers, trying to get his eyes to cooperate, he saw a tinge of pink.

_Old blood, not new? Maybe the bleeding's stopped. Head wounds bleed like crazy._

His eyes followed the tinge of blood down his arm, and he realized it hurt. It was starting to hurt badly. Turning his arm, he saw his shirt sleeve was torn and dirty, stuck into a long open wound on his forearm that was no cleaner than the shirt.

_The windshield shattered. I swam through it. Must have cut it on the glass._

Trying to remember what first-aid training he'd had in the past, he realized he needed to stop the slow trickle of blood now following gravity to his elbow. Using his right hand, he pulled off his belt and cinched it near his elbow, pulling it tight.

_Can't cut off all the blood. I'd lose my arm from gangrene. If I had some dressing, I could just put pressure on the wound. But where...?_

Looking around, he felt a small wave of dizziness, so he took a deep breath and let it pass. He'd come to rest in the shade of several trees, not far from the bank of the river. He couldn't see very well, but thought he must have swum or been swept quite a ways downstream. He could only hear the river, so hoped he wasn't about to be recaptured.

_Time to move, before it gets dark. Someone has to be close enough to help me._

Curling his left arm around him, he grabbed at a low branch and struggled to pull himself up. Getting to his feet, he took a moment to regain his balance, then realized he only had one shoe and the bare foot felt bruised.

_Better find some help fast,_ Hutch thought, with a sudden flash of dark humor about his situation. _Before something falls off. I think I'm going to start coming loose at the seams._

Looking back at the river, his eyes scanned the bank. He had come out somewhere downstream and on the other side. There was no going back over the river, and from what he could see, the bank was too steep and dangerous in places to walk down it very far.

_I need to find a road. There's got to be one around somewhere. Even just a trail. No river is without its fishermen._

He turned around and started to walk away from the river, hoping he wouldn't have far to go.

 

***

 

Dayton and Kincaid walked into the back of the club, eyes and ears open for Pomell. They'd been gone for almost two hours, and both were anxious to report that the cop had been taken care of. As they passed Pomell's office, Dayton took a look inside. It was empty.

"He must've stepped out," Dayton said worriedly as he turned to Kincaid. "Should we wait here?"

Kincaid shrugged his skinny shoulders. "Better here, than to have him go looking for us. The sooner we tell him we fixed the problem, the sooner we can relax. Besides, I could use a beer."

Dayton nodded and headed toward the front of the building. The jukebox was playing one of Pomell's favorites, and the large room seemed fairly full for a Sunday afternoon. They headed for the bar, taking up the stools at the close end, where they could keep an eye on the door.

"Two beers," Kincaid said, giving the order to Eddie. "And put it on the tab."

Eddie, who had been filling a beer for another customer, set it down in front of his other patron and said something quietly. Kincaid noted the kid looked upset, and wondered what he'd done wrong this time, and why Pomell kept him around.

The customer got up, without his beer, and turned toward them. Before either man could move, they found themselves surrounded and the barrel of guns pressed into their backs.

The customer came up to them and pulled out a badge, as Dayton and Kincaid raised their hands.

"Gentlemen, you're under arrest. I'm detective Finch, and these men behind you are my associates. You have the right to remain silent."

"Arrest? What for?" Kincaid asked, looking shocked and panicked as his hands were handcuffed behind his back.

"Anything you say can and _will_ be used against you in a court of law," Finch continued. "You have the right to have an attorney present  — "

Kincaid tried to pull away, but was held in place by the man behind him. "Hey! You can't do this!"

"Calm down," Dayton hissed at Kincaid. "We ain't got nothing to say."

"If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. And I hope you two understand all that, 'cause you're goin' down for murder."

"I'm not goin' down for nuthin'!" Kincaid whined as the cop patting him down started emptying his pockets. He almost moaned as his knife was found and confiscated, along with the other items in his pockets.

Finch nodded to the other two detectives holding the prisoners, his expression grave. "Take them to Starsky. I'll bet he's got a few question for these two."

 

***

 

Hutch had found the nearest "road," but it wasn't very promising.

He had climbed through a tangle of leaves and branches, which could have been worse, considering the area. He had hoped the thinness of the trees and brush and the low bank on the river meant that fishermen had used the area from time to time. When he came upon the road, he found two dim, barely visible tracks in the grassy area behind the line of trees.

There wasn't anything to do but walk it, so he headed downstream.

 

***

 

Starsky sat on one of the crates in the storage room, waiting for Dayton and Kincaid to be brought in to him. He'd tried to disregard the spot on the floor where the blood and blond hair had been found, but he found it hard to ignore.

_Where did they take you from here, Hutch? How badly are you hurt? If only I'd been there with you, when you found those papers._

But being in the storage room was better than being outside, slumped in the undercover car, watching the back of the bar from half a block away. He had been too afraid they would recognize him, so had waited for a squawk from Finch's walkie-talkie, telling him their suspects were in hand. It seemed an eternity before the two men who fit the description had pulled up and entered the back door.

The door to the storage room opened, and Detective Simmons entered, pulling a small thin-faced man ahead of him into the room. "This is Kincaid," Simmons said, handing Starsky a wallet, keys, and a switchblade. "He seems to be surprised that he's been arrested for Murder One."

Simmons crossed his arms and went to stand in a corner, leaving Kincaid standing in the middle of the room.

"I want a lawyer!" Kincaid said shrilly, looking like he was being confronted by a ghost as Starsky stood and approached slowly. Kincaid backed himself up against the wall. "You gotta give me one!"

Starsky came over slowly, letting Kincaid see anger and contempt in his eyes. He walked into the smaller man's space, watching as Kincaid grew even more scared as the silence became prolonged. He could smell the fear in Kincaid's nervous sweat.

"You want a lawyer?" Starsky asked softly. "We'll get you one. I know a really good one, a friend of mine. A guy that owes me. How about him? I happen..." Starsky's voice grew lower, his position more threatening, "...to have a _lot_ of friends. In a _lot_ of places. You'd be surprised at who I know."

Kincaid's eyes grew even larger as he digested the thinly veiled threat. "L-look, I didn't murder anyone! You're barking up the wrong tree, here. I swear it."

"You didn't do it, but I'll bet you know who did." Starsky backed off a bit, looking Kincaid up and down. Without taking his eyes off Kincaid, he addressed the other detective. "Simmons, this guy doesn't look like a killer to you, does he?"

"Not to me," Simmons said, going along with Starsky's game plan.

"So that must mean he's the kind that knows things. Things that other people, like Pomell for instance, might not want them to live long enough to tell. Bet there'll be a lot of people interested in you going to jail, huh, Kincaid? Unless, of course, you cooperate and get some of the good guys on your side."

Starsky could almost see the wheels turning behind Kincaid's eyes. "Maybe I do know something," Kincaid said quickly. "Maybe enough to get me a good deal, ya know?"

"Depends," Starsky said, moving close again. "My partner is missing and I need to find him. _Now._ You help me find him, and I'll put a good word in with the DA for you. Might even get you a cell to yourself, for a while. His name is Hutchinson. He's tall and blond, and I think you know where he is."

Kincaid went pale and gulped loudly, his eyes locked on Starsky's. "I want a lawyer," Kincaid said weakly.

Starsky's heart fell and he clenched his fists to keep from strangling the truth out of the man.

"Put him in the car," Starsky ordered tightly, turning his back and walking away from the shaking man.

_He was scared, and if Hutch was alive, Kincaid would've told me, just to build up some Brownie points with the DA. If he didn't kill Hutch, he must think he's dead._

The thought scared him down to his toes, and he wanted to be angry, to hurt someone.

_Find him first! Gotta play the game until I find him. He's strong. He's smart. He's taken care of himself in the past. I gotta hang onto that._

As he heard the door open behind him, he took a deep breath, trying to relax as much as he could. It was important that he give the right impression to this guy, and he had to be able to control himself.

When the door shut, he turned and saw Dayton. Taller than Kincaid, Dayton was more muscular and had the flattened ears and broken nose of someone who'd boxed for many years. He was glaring at Finch, who had pulled him into the room, but he didn't seem to have the same nervous, guilty energy Kincaid had. Starsky got the feeling Dayton was the least likely of the two to crack. Finch and Simmons had done well in choosing which one to bring him first.

"Detective Starsky, you wanted to see Dayton?" Finch asked, his hand on Dayton's arm.

Starsky lunged then, prepared to strike the handcuffed prisoner. In a split second, Finch pushed Dayton back against the wall behind them, blocking Starsky with his body.

"You mother-fucking piece of shit!" Starsky bellowed, fighting Finch enough to make it look real. "I get my hands on you, and I'm going to tear you to pieces!"

Finch shoved hard, making Starsky stumble in an effort to keep upright. "Cool it, Starsky! You wanna blow this case?"

Starsky lunged forward again, and Finch caught him, his eyes glued to Dayton's, who had backed up against the wall and was starting to look scared. "He _killed_ my partner! Kincaid told us what happened. So help me, Dayton," Starsky hissed, stabbing a finger at Dayton over Finch's shoulder. "Once Kincaid leads us to where my partner is, I'm going to have you flayed alive! And you can forget any kinda deal with the DA, not after Kincaid gets his say. You've been sold out, and I'm going to see you _fry_!"

The door burst open, and another detective, Zeller, came into the room, looking concerned

"Get him in the car!" Finch, still wrestling with Starsky, ordered the other detective. "I'll be out to drive him in as soon as Starsky calms down."

Dayton was pulled out of the room, and as soon as the door closed Starsky relaxed, suddenly drained. Instead of holding him back, Finch was almost holding him up. The look of surprise and anger on Dayton's face was the reaction he'd been working for.

"Hell, Starsky, you had _me_ scared you were gonna get past me and rip the guy's heart out," Finch said, a sympathetic smile on his face.

"I was tempted," Starsky admitted. "We got that tape recorder going?"

Finch nodded. "It's in the office next door. C'mon, let's see if this idea of yours works."

Starsky and Finch crowded into Pomell's office with the other detectives, one of whom was seated at the desk, working with the receiver and tape recorder. Kincaid had been put in the back of a black-and-white, left alone in the back seat while a uniformed officer had been ordered to stay out of the car and act as if he were awaiting orders to transport the prisoners. A radio microphone was hidden under the front seat.

All four detectives went silent as they heard the back door open and Dayton slide inside. As soon as the door slammed shut, Dayton's angry voice filled the air inside Pomell's office.

"You bastard!" Dayton hissed. "You told them!"

"What?" Kincaid sounded confused. "I didn't say anything! I swear!"

"Then how do they know where we dumped the cop?" Dayton snarled his question. "How come they're getting ready to go get him?"

"T-they can't be," Kincaid whined. "Why would I tell them about dumping him in that river? They find him in the trunk of that car, find he drowned, and we _both_ go down for murder."

Despite himself, Starsky gasped at the confirmation of his worst fears. He closed his eyes, hands gripping the back of the wooden chair so hard that, for a moment, he thought he could rip it apart. The other detectives were silent, and a sympathetic hand gripped Starsky's arm. He nodded to himself and turned his attention back to the argument in the car.

"You told them _I_ killed him! You're gonna try to pin it on me, you piece of _shit_."

"If they know _anything_ , it must've come from Pomell. He must be talkin' to the cops right now. He could be tellin' them about us taking out Vindell and Cummings."

"Pomell wouldn't talk," Dayton said with conviction. "That cop inside, the one we saw coming out of Cummings' room before we confronted him, was the blond cop's partner. He was ready to tear me limb from limb, and he said _you_ talked. Knowing you, Kincaid, I believe him. You've been close to panic all the way back here. If I could get out of these cuffs, I'd show you what happens to a fucking _snitch_!"

"It's gotta be Pomell, or...or a trick!" Kincaid insisted, sounding frantic to convince his partner. He started to babble. "There's no way they could know where we dumped him, or they would've stopped us on the way back, or when we stopped at that rest stop. Or maybe there's something on our car, like mud or something, that they can tell came from Ryan River. That's an hour trip each way, so I bet the dirt is different from here, and they got labs that can — "

"Shut up!" Dayton shouted suddenly, sounding to Starsky like he just then realized what they were saying. "Don't say another word, Kincaid, or I swear I'll find a way to shut you up permanently. We've both talked too damn much."

After a moment, when neither of the men made any further comments, Simmons sighed. "Guess that's all we're going to get from them. At least, until we confront them with the tape and see who cracks first."

"Starsky," Finch said softly, his hand still on Starsky's arm, "We're all real sorry about Hutch. You know we'll all do what we can to — "

"Yeah. Yeah..." Starsky said distractedly, almost not registering the sympathetic words.

_"They'll find him in the trunk of that car, find he drowned..."_

_Drowned. Wounded. Alone. Never had a chance._

Starsky felt numb, as if he'd somehow stepped back from reality. He stood carefully and realized all three pairs of eyes were on him, understanding his reaction and giving him the time he needed to get through this rough moment.

Starsky cleared his throat. "We need to get a copy of that tape. Make sure nothing happens to the original. We've got them on Vindell and Cummings. Right now I..." Starsky hesitated, not sure he could trust his voice not to crack. "I want my partner back. Somehow, we need to find out exactly where he is."

"Separate Dayton and Kincaid," Simmons added. "Until they hear the tape, neither one of them can be sure we know anything."

"The Ryan River is miles long," Zeller said uncertainly, turning to look at the others. "Their car isn't a four-wheel drive, nor was the car Hutch was driving. They'd have to go to a more public area, or they'd have had one car or the other hung up on rough terrain."

"Public, but with private spots," Finch agreed, looking at Zeller. "You've been up there, right? How well do you know the area?"

Zeller scowled in thought. "I've been thinking about what Kincaid said about it being an hour there and back. There's a highway exit about an hour away that goes through a small town, with a couple of gas stations. One could be the station Kincaid was talking about stopping at. If you know where to go, there are some spots where you can drive up to the edge, and even into it, without getting hung up on a sandy bank."

"Take me there," Starsky ordered sharply, grabbing on to the idea like a lifesaver. "Finch, you and Simmons get Dayton and Kincaid separated and booked. See what you can get out of them before they get lawyered up. Kincaid's about to bust wide open, he's so spooked. Lean on him."

"We'll tell Dobey you're on your way to the Ryan," Finch said. "We can call and have a sheriff meet you there. They can even get a head start, if we tell them just what we're looking for."

"We'd better go back to the station and get my jeep," Zeller said to Starsky. "It's a Cherokee. Four-wheel drive. We might need it."

Starsky nodded, appreciating the offer. "Let's do it," Starsky said through the lump in his throat, then turned and headed out the door.

 

***

 

Hutch pushed himself up off his hands and knees, having thrown up again. He didn't know how far he'd walked, but suspected it wasn't a great distance. His head had started pounding again, and he wanted nothing more than to stop and rest. But he was afraid once he stopped, he might be too weak to start up again.

But his body had other ideas, and his stomach had rebelled. Now, after the second bout of vomiting, he sat back and gave himself a moment to rest.

_I'll pass out again if I try to go too far. But it's going to be dark pretty soon._

Carefully, he got to his feet, then checked his arm. The bleeding had stopped, and his fingers were pink, although stiff. He was afraid to move it any more than he had to.

He kept walking, his bare foot in the track, so he could avoid the sharp grasses and other growth that would hurt his foot further. He was already limping enough to slow him down.

_They must think I'm dead, or they would have finished the job when I passed out on the bank. Maybe there's a chance to get back that evidence._

He was barely moving forward. His mouth was dry, and he knew he was soon going to be sick again.

As he stepped past a tangle of bushes, his eyes were suddenly drawn to a blue that didn't look natural. Off to the side of the rough track was an old blue pick-up truck. It was well-used, but looked as if it might have been left there only hours ago.

His heart racing with hope, Hutch limped closer. His heart sank as he saw the two flat tires at the front and what looked to be a broken back axle underneath.

_Maybe inside...there could be something inside that might help._

He was lucky the door was unlocked. Pulling it open, he had to stop and brace himself against the door as his head started to spin. After a moment, when the world settled again, he looked over the interior.

It looked stripped, even the glove compartment was open and empty. His heart fluttered, and a wave of weariness seemed to drain every bit of energy he had.

_Only for a few minutes...just a few...._

With his last ounce of strength, he pulled himself into the cab, lay down upon the bench seat, and drifted off to sleep.

 

***

 

The trip out of town had mostly been spent in solitary thought, for which Starsky was grateful. Zeller was a veteran of the force, with at least twenty years under his belt. He had lost a partner a few years back, so Starsky knew Zeller understood that the last thing he could handle right now was any small talk.

As they came up on the exit for Trenton, a blip on the map that accompanied the turn-off, his mind repeated the same thoughts he'd had for the last hour.

_They took him out here and drowned him. I heard them say it, when they thought it was just the two of them. He's dead._

_But he can't be dead. There's gotta be a mistake._

Starsky felt numb, as if the words didn't really mean anything to him now. At the time, he'd felt like his very breath had been ripped from him. He'd felt stunned and confused for a moment. How could Hutch be dead? He was...he was _Hutch_.

It had taken a moment to get past it, past hearing his fear being confirmed over a microphone. He'd had to force his attention back to that room and the conversation between the two suspects in the car. He had to find Hutch, prove to everyone that it couldn't be true, just as some part of him kept insisting it wasn't.

_If he's dead, it's my fault. He went out there to help me. With no back-up._

_I should've never gone to Cummings. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been arrested for his murder. Then I would've been there for Hutch when he found out._

_I wasn't even there for that. I wasn't there when he needed me._

_He can't be gone!_

"...a few hours," Zeller said.

Starsky turned to look at him, realizing he'd missed what the other detective was saying.

Glancing at Starsky, Zeller must have seen his confusion, because he repeated himself. "We have a few hours before the sun sets. Then we'll have to wait until morning. If we're lucky, the Sheriff Department will be waiting for us. May save us time in the long run."

Starsky only nodded as Zeller took the exit. It didn't take him long to spot the two sheriff's cars at one of the gas stations. Zeller parked near them, barely stopping the jeep before Starsky opened the door.

Starsky pulled out his badge as he faced the two approaching sheriff's deputies. "I'm Detective Starsky; he's Detective Zeller. We're — "

"We got the message," the older of the two men held out his hand for Starsky to shake. "I'm Deputy Quincy, and this is Walters. We got a call from your captain. I'm sorry you had to come all the way down here for this."

"So am I," Starsky said quietly. "Did Dobey say anything else? Any new information?"

"Not that I know of." Quincy shook his head, looking regretful. "Just that your two suspects have clammed up and are talking to their lawyers. We got some good descriptions of the two men and the two cars, and the owners of this station remember them. So we know they were here, and I've taken their statement on the car, the time, and the amount of purchase to use against them later."

"Did they say where they were going? Give him any clues?" Starsky asked, not expecting much, but needing to ask.

"The attendant said neither one of them wanted to chat," Walters said, his voice low and gravelly. Taller than either of the other three, Walters had the wind-blown, brown-skinned look of someone who'd spent a lot of time outdoors. "They filled up and headed toward the on-ramp that would take them to Bay City."

"Walters and I have been discussing suitable places on the river to sink a car," Quincy added. "He knows more than a few spots deep enough. But I can tell you for a fact, that not all cars would make it to the edge, let alone get enough of a roll to start sinking. We figured we'd take you to them and see if we can spot the likely areas."

"We've got some local divers on call," Walters said. "And some extra deputies coming in off-duty, who're going to start downstream. I figured we'd try the most likely spots, which are upstream from here. If we see anything, the divers can come in and — "

"Fine," Starsky interrupted, feeling impatient and slightly shaky. "Thanks. Let's get started."

 

***

 

An hour and a half later, Starsky was standing at the top of a rocky rise that looked out over the river. The river was wide, fast moving, and deeper in places than Starsky had first realized. Originating almost a hundred miles away, it was filled with rain water and the melted snows of the Sierra Nevada mountains and all the areas in between.

_Hutch would love it here,_ Starsky thought sadly, looking at the mixture of brush and trees that grew right up to the banks of the river in most areas. The view was beautiful, with the trees and plants still retaining that particular fresh green of spring that would turn darker as the summer progressed. _He was always talking about coming up here for some quick fishing one weekend, if he could only find a spot we could have to ourselves._

This was the third stop on this side of the river. There had been a group of fishermen at the first stop, who had been there since early Sunday morning. In the second spot, Starsky had helped the other three futilely look for tire tracks in the soft muddy mixture at the bank.

_There's no telling how far they went up the river, or which side they drove up. Quincy thought they would stick to this side with the easier roads, but we can't know for sure. And Kincaid said it was an hour away. We've already gone farther than that. How long were they really gone?_

It would be dark in an hour or so, and Starsky didn't think he could stand waiting until morning to continue the search. He knew there must be thirty or more men searching, or on their way in to help. But the river was so long....

"I don't know, Starsky," Zeller said, coming up to him. He looked tired and frustrated. "I've been down to the edge, but it's just too rocky here to see any tire tracks. The water's always churned up here, so we can't see through it."

_Should we leave? Shouldn't I know, somehow, if we're close?_

"Let's give it a few more minutes," Starsky decided. "Quincy and Walters are checking the bank upstream. I want to go downstream a ways."

Leaving Zeller, Starsky walked down to the bank. The rocks here were slick and he had to be careful, as his tennis shoes were muddy from the last stop. He walked a short distance, his eyes on the water as he maneuvered around small bushes and tufts of long grasses. A flicker of white, mixed with the various greens of undergrowth, caught his eye. It seemed to be making small circles in the water, caught at the edge by some of the new growth.

Holding onto the thick branch of a bush, Starsky leaned down and reached into the swirling water. He pulled it out, realizing it was an old black-and-white photograph. The paper was soggy, but was holding together. It was a picture of a young couple, taken decades ago.

_Just someone's garbage._ _Except...why do they look familiar?_

There was something about the two faces that drew him in. Confused, he turned the picture over and gasped.

_Kenneth Robert Cummings? Hutch!_

Standing up, he looked deeper into the water. There was something silver at the bottom. He jumped into the water, finding it knee deep. Reaching down, he was careful to keep his balance in the swift current. When he touched it, he knew what it was.

Pulling Hutch's magnum out of the water, he realized the picture hadn't been swept downstream, and that somewhere in the swirling water was the car. And Hutch.

His breathing harsh, Starsky wiped at the wetness on his face. The urge to let his emotions go out of control.

_I can't do this now!_ he chided himself. _I still need to find him. He needs to be brought home._

With a heavy heart, he turned and started his way back to the others. It was time to call in the divers and a tow truck. Time to face the future and deal with it.

 

***

 

When Hutch opened his eyes, he felt confused. He knew he was in trouble. He hurt all over and his arm, head, and foot felt like they hadn't gotten any better while he'd slept, but he didn't recognize the object in front of him.

_A steering wheel,_ he thought after a moment of hard concentration. _I fell asleep...with a head injury. Not a good idea._

It was getting darker outside, and in the distance he thought he could hear cars. Cars meant people — and help.

_I've got to push up... got to go find...._

Without moving a finger, he once again drifted away.

 

***

 

Starsky stood on the upper part of the steep bank as the sun set, watching as the tow truck pulled Cal's car out of the Ryan River. Zeller and Dobey stood by him, Dobey having arrived at the scene not long before the rescue team and the tow trucks.

There was a group of four-wheel-drive cars around him, most of them turned to shine their headlights out onto the river. While it wasn't dark yet, it would be soon, and no one wanted to call it a night without knowing for sure.

The divers had found the car farther down the stream than where it probably went in, so it was going to be harder to bring up. The bank here was much higher and steeper. The best they were going to be able to do this evening was bring it to the edge and see if they could open the trunk.

Deputy Quincy hadn't minced words, nor expected a reaction, and for that Starsky was grateful. He had reported the news from the divers as soon as they had pulled themselves by their safety ropes out of the churning water.

The car had the license plate they were looking for, as well as being the correct color and make. It had rolled on its roof, and the windows had shattered. They had first hooked chains to the far side of the car, and with the divers out of the way, they'd managed to roll it back on its wheels. Then the divers had gone back in and hooked up the car's back end to the tow trucks. Soon they'd start pulling it out.

Starsky had stood silently, watching the others do their jobs. He felt disconnected, not feeling much of anything, but with his mind running in circles like a dog chasing its tail.

_He can't be in there. He can't. There's been a mistake and they're wrong. He can't go this way. We'll go out together. I know that. It's got to be true._

He didn't really believe in their invincibility. It had always been easier to ignore their own mortality if he could pretend that if one was okay, the other would be, too. If one went, the other would be in the same line of fire and would suffer the same fate.

He would have a definite answer soon, although he wasn't sure he really wanted to know. When someone shouted and those at the bank backed up, Starsky crossed his arms tightly across his chest. The tow trucks started their winches, and the chains went taut.

It took only a minute before Starsky saw the blue of the car under the dark moving water. First, he saw the top of the car appear, all dented and caved in, then the back windshield that was spider-webbed with cracks. The trunk was next.

Starsky started when Dobey's hand was suddenly placed on his shoulder, but his eyes were glued to the trunk of the car.

"Breathe, Dave," Dobey said gently.

Inch by inch, the car was dragged back to the bank. It moved a little faster as it started to drain water from the broken front windows. Finally, it was coming close to the bank, and Starsky took a deep breath and started down the steep hill.

Dobey's hand held him back. "Let them do it. Stay here."

Starsky stopped and turned to look at Dobey. He saw the worry in Dobey's eyes. "I can't," he said tightly. "You know that. I have to be there. No matter what."

One of the rescuers had a wrench and was working on the trunk as Starsky approached. He noticed some of the other men, who were standing on the bank, holding flashlights in the growing darkness, were looking at each other, wondering if they should ask him to leave.

He ignored them, wading right up to the car, standing to the side of the man who was working on the lock. Everything seemed to go silent when the lock gave with a loud pop.

_Don't do this to me, Hutch! Please don't be in there!_

The metal was crushed enough that the lid didn't swing open, and it seemed to be stuck. Before he realized it, Starsky had the edges of the trunk in his hands and was helping push it open.

Suddenly, the whole thing gave, and the interior was flooded with flashlight beams.

Starsky leaned against the car, the wash of relief making him feel faint. "He's not here," he whispered to himself. He could hear the word being passed to those who were watching. The first flush of hope that ran through him turned sour as he looked inside the trunk.

_If he's not here, then where is he?_

The contents were a mess, drenched with the water and having been tossed around. There was a sheet inside, under the various tools and garage items. He reached in, and as he pushed some of the other items aside, he noticed a single shoe.

_Hutch's size. He has a pair of these. Was he wearing them when he came to the station?_

Starsky couldn't remember. He handed the shoe to Dobey, who was there standing in the water with him. Pulling on the sheet once again, he saw there was a dark pinkish stain in the material at one end.

_Blood. Who knows how much of it has washed out?_

Two small lengths of cord were in the heavy folds of the sodden sheet.

"Looks like the cord from a Venetian blind," Dobey said, picking one up. "He must have been tied up with it."

"Then he got out." Starsky took another deep breath, fighting the urge to release a hysterical laugh that was bubbling in his center. He turned to smile at Dobey. "He got _out_!"

Dobey looked at him with concern, and Starsky realized he must have looked on the edge of losing it. "It looks that way," Dobey said uncertainly. "But that doesn't mean — "

_That he's still alive. He's right. They could've taken Hutch out and thrown him in, especially..._ Starsky swallowed tightly. _Especially if they'd found he was already dead when they got here. Or he could have escaped, but...didn't make it._

"I know, Captain," Starsky admitted, rubbing his face. "We'll need to organize a search, downstream. He could be...hurt. We need to find him."

Dobey reached over and gave his arm a squeeze then turned to head back to the bank. They were going to need more men, there being miles yet to the ocean, and Hutch could be anywhere. They were running out of time. Starsky knew Dobey would start the ball rolling.

_Just hang on, Hutch. I'm coming for you, with a lot of help. Just give us a signal, something to help us find you, and I'll take you home._

_Hang on for me, buddy!_

 

***

 

"But there's got to be something we can do!" Starsky bellowed at no one in particular as he stared out of a small window in the front of the sheriff's station. They had come back to the station to make further search plans, but even before they'd reached the area, Starsky realized they had lost the race against time. He knew it, but didn't like it.

"Starsky," Dobey said chidingly. "You heard Deputy Quincy. We can only see a small part of the river from the road. It's too dangerous to do a bank-to-bank search at night."

"I know," Starsky said, pounding a fist on the window frame in frustration. "But there's got to be something we can do!"

"I've got some volunteers out, checking the more easily accessible places right now," Quincy said calmly. "But frankly..."

Starsky turned to look at Quincy, who seemed reluctant to finish his sentence. Starsky turned and walked to the knot of men whom he knew were trying their best to put up with his roller-coaster emotions. "It's not the accessible places that the bodies get hung up on. I know, I heard someone say it outside. It's just — "

"First light, Detective Starsky," Quincy said with regret in his voice. "It's the best we can do and make sure there aren't any accidents among the searchers. "I promise you, we'll have everyone ready to go as soon as we can do so safely."

"You might as well get something to eat," Dobey said, using his official voice. Starsky realized he was being given an order. "There's a diner across the street. You get over there and order something for both of us, and I'll join you as soon as this gets all arranged."

"Captain, I — "

"Go!" Dobey bellowed, leaving no doubt it was an order.

Starsky got up and left the building, resisting the urge to vent his frustration by slamming the door behind him.

_I can't just sit around and wait! There has to be something I can do to help. Morning won't come early enough._

Hands in his pockets, he started toward the diner that was half a block down the street. He wasn't hungry, nor did he think he could sit in one place for very long. Sleep was out of the question.

He wasn't even halfway there when he heard his name called out. Turning, he spotted Zeller leaning on his jeep, waving him over.

Starsky walked up to him. Zeller had parked in an empty lot with many of the others who had answered the call for help. Starsky figured the whole town had rarely seen this many cars at once.

"They call it for the night?" Zeller asked, lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah. They don't have much choice. It's too dangerous to search the banks in the dark."

"They announced it on the CB. They've got us all on the same channel, so we can coordinate with the civilian searchers tomorrow." Zeller took a drag, nodding his head. "Only to be expected. Must be driving you crazy."

"Short drive," Starsky agreed reluctantly. "I just can't sit still and do nothing all night. Hutch is out there — "

"I don't blame you." Zeller pushed himself off the jeep, leaving the cigarette in his mouth as he dug into his pants pocket. He pulled out a set of keys and tossed them to Starsky, who almost dropped them in surprise. Zeller gave him a slight smile as he turned toward the diner. "I just filled it up. Dobey asks, you picked my pocket while I was eating."

Starsky watched open-mouthed as Zeller walked away. It took him a moment before he realized what he'd been given. He remembered Zeller had lost a partner several years ago.

_He understands, too well. I just pray he and I won't ever have that loss in common._

 

***

 

At first he thought he was blind, that the wound and the pain had done more damage than he realized. But as Hutch managed to move his right hand, he could see the shadow of it out of the corner of his eye. The movement was almost too much for him, and he dropped it back down.

_It's dark. It's hot. It's **cold.** I need to get up and move, to keep warm._

He tried to push himself up, but his limbs weren't cooperating. As he moved his left arm, he gasped when a wave of pain flashed up the limb and into his shoulder. His whole arm felt swollen and stiff. He could barely feel his fingers.

**_I'm_** _hot,_ Hutch realized, fighting the urge to empty his stomach again. _A fever, from infection. I'm in real trouble. Can't let myself fall asleep._

He pulled his right arm under him and slowly pushed himself up. Once upright, he realized his head was spinning, so he leaned back against the window in the back of the cab. Closing his eyes, he tried to let the world settle around him once again.

_I've got to...move...move._

How long he sat there he didn't know, his thoughts were too fragmented to keep track of. He could hear the sounds of the night — the chirping of crickets, the rustle of branches as the wind blew the bushes that hid the truck. There was another sound in the distance.

_Water. It's the river._

But it seemed more important than that, as if he should pay attention. Not moving, he listened harder.

_A motor? Someone's driving nearby?_

His heart started pounding at the thought of help, but it only seemed to make him feel worse. He moved, needing to get to the sound.

But before he could get very far, he fell forward, dry heaves wracking his body and bringing back the blackness in his mind.

 

***

 

Starsky pushed himself through the trees at the top of the rise, shinning his light down to the water below. He couldn't see anything. Just as he'd not been able to see a good portion of the bank at any of the stops he'd made that night. He had tried to be careful, but had collected more than his share of scratches from the bushes and trees he'd pushed through to get to the bank, and a misplaced step had come close to twisting his ankle.

_I'm not doing any good,_ Starsky thought wearily, lowering the flashlight and turning it off. The night was dark, with only a quarter moon that served to throw the world in shadows. The light off the river was almost gone, except for small points of light reflected off the moving water.

_It's been two hours, and I haven't seen any signs of Hutch. Dobey was right. I can't do anything in the dark. I'm wasting my time here._

He had decided to tackle the other side of the river, where he'd been warned the trail wasn't safe for regular cars. He knew that tomorrow there'd be a whole slew of four-wheel-drives waiting to cover this area, but Starsky needed it covered tonight. It wasn't until he had started up the rugged trail that he'd realized how serious the warnings had been. Cal's car couldn't have gone very far on these roads.

_But we're not looking for a car anymore. Hutch could be...could be anywhere._

Starsky turned around and pushed tiredly through the rough path he'd made among the trees and bushes, his eyes on his feet so he wouldn't trip. As he came up to the jeep, he could hear Dobey's voice over the CB. "Starsky? You still out there?"

Starsky sighed, reaching for the mic. While Dobey hadn't been mad at him, he hadn't been happy about him taking off on his own. Instead of a lecture or an order that Starsky wouldn't have followed anyway, Dobey and only asked that he check in every thirty minutes. Starsky must have gone too long since the last time he'd called in.

"Here, Cap'n. I'm still looking. Any word?"

"I'm afraid not," came the reluctant answer. "You've been out there a while now, Starsky. We're going to be making some more plans for tomorrow's search. Why don't you head on back and get some rest. Something to eat?"

_Should I go back? Am I doing any good out here? How far have I gone? What if I'm too far upstream and I'm just wasting time?_

Starsky checked his watch, the hands glowing in the dark. There were still too many hours until daylight, but he could feel his body tiring, and maneuvering the rough trail in the dark was taking a lot of his attention and energy.

_Maybe it wouldn't hurt to turn around and head back. I could top the car off, get something to eat. If I get this thing stuck because my reflexes are slow, then I won't be helping anyone._

Sleep, of course, never crossed his mind.

"I'll start back, Captain, but don't wait up for me. I'm going to keep my eyes open."

 

***

 

Hutch would have wept if he'd had the strength. When the spasms had stopped and he was able to right himself, the sound had disappeared.

_Gone! They're gone!_

He was leaning sideways, his strength thin, like cold water had seeped in his veins. Then he heard it, the distant start of an engine.

_Close! I have to...have to do **something**!_

His foggy mind drew out one last idea before he fell forward, almost too tired to hope.

 

***

 

Starsky started the engine, using the high beams so he could see the rugged tracks he was following. He had just started back when he heard a strange sound.

_What was that? A horn?_

The sound had been thin and wavering, barely audible through the night air. He turned off the engine and leaned out the open window. The sound stopped, then started again and faded away.

_A car horn? From behind me? Sounds like the battery's about to die._

Starsky pulled the car over to the side, in case someone was coming up behind him. Getting back out, he grabbed the flashlight and stood in the middle of the trail. He didn't hear the sound of a motor.

_No motor, but a car horn? It didn't sound that far away, unless they're parked. Does someone need help?_

_Could it be_ — _?_

He switched on the light, starting to jog down the trail behind him, his heart racing.

The sound started again, then stopped suddenly, just like a car horn draining a battery dry. Starsky started running, the light from the flashlight bobbing back and forth with the movement.

_It's_ _close, can't be much farther._

He saw it then as the flashlight veered to his left. A flash of blue in the green foliage. It was a truck, mostly hidden from the road.

He threw all the light on it. Running to it, he noticed the door was ajar.

_Please let it be him! Please!_

Wrenching the door open, Starsky felt stunned, relief making his eyes moist and his heart jump.

"Hutch! Hutch! Are you okay?" He placed the flashlight on the dashboard and pulled himself into the cab of the truck. There was no denying it was Hutch. Starsky recognized his long, lean shape hunched over the steering wheel.

Hutch looked awful. His ripped clothing, once wet, looked like it was still vaguely damp. There was mud all over him, with bits of river debris in his hair. He looked unconscious, his head dropping over the top edge of the wheel.

"Hutch?" Carefully, Starsky touched the back of his partner's head with his left hand, feeling through the long, tangled, and dirty strands for a wound. With his right, he took Hutch's wrist and tried to find a pulse. He found both the wound and a pulse, after a quick flash of panic that he was too late.

His heart leapt as Hutch moaned and his arm twitched. But his eyes stayed closed. The skin beneath Starsky's fingers felt hot and clammy.

"Shit, that's a big lump, huh, buddy?" Starsky said gently, hoping he was getting through. "Let's see where else you're hurt, okay?

Cupping the back of Hutch's head, he reached between him and the steering wheel and placed his palm on the middle of Hutch's chest. Gently, he pushed, leaning Hutch against the back of the bench seat. Moving his hand to the side of Hutch's face, Starsky slowly reached for the flashlight. He moved it farther up the dashboard so he could see Hutch better.

Even taking into consideration the yellow tint of the light, Hutch looked sick. There was a large swelling near the back of his head, and Starsky knew the wound had opened and bled heavily, there were still trails of dried blood down the left side of his face that the river hadn't washed away.

With his hand still supporting Hutch's head, Starsky used his right hand to feel under and through Hutch's clothing to his rib cage, checking for anything that felt broken. His hand went up to Hutch's left shoulder and down the back of his arm. As he pulled the arm toward him, he saw the dark stains on the inside of his sleeve. He settled Hutch's arm across him and pulled the fabric back.

_Oh, man, that's ugly,_ Starsky thought as he looked at the deep, dirty, and obviously infected wound. _Wonder if he got that trying to escape from the car?_

He felt the limb, glad to know the bones were intact.

He gently cupped Hutch's face in both hands. "Hutch? C'mon, buddy. Give me a sign you're still in there?"

Hutch moaned, and his eyelids flickered but didn't open.

"Okay, just rest, partner. I've got you." Starsky slowly lowered Hutch down onto the bench seat as best he could. "Just relax. Relax. I'm gonna call for some help."

A part of him didn't want to leave Hutch in the dark, but he knew he needed the light to get back to the jeep.

_I'll make it quick! I promise!_

He ran, doing his best not to trip and waste time picking himself up. When he reached the jeep, he jumped in and did a tight turn.

_Careful! You can't get stuck now!_

He pulled the jeep up to the truck, facing it so the lights shone inside the cab. As he put it in park he picked up the radio.

"Starsky to Dobey! Starsky to the sheriff's station! I need some help out here!"

There was a flash of static, then a reply. "Deputy Quincy here. You okay, Starsky?"

"I found him! He's alive and hurt."

Starsky could almost feel the surprise on the other side of the radio.

"Where are you?"

"On the north side of the river, about fifteen miles upstream."

More silence, which made Starsky twitch with impatience.

"How badly is he hurt?"

"Head wound. Arm wound, and I haven't seen him conscious yet. He's got a fever, but I didn't feel anything broken in his rib cage."

"Was he in or out of the river?"

"Out of it. He'd found shelter."

"We can't send an ambulance down that road, Starsky, but we can outfit one of the vehicles here with some equipment and a paramedic or two. Best not to move him, even if you don't think anything's broken. Just keep him warm and sit tight. We'll find you. Keep your radio on, and honk when you hear us approach."

"Will do." Starsky tossed the mic aside and jumped out to the jeep's cargo area. He was thrilled to see some supplies in the back.

_Blankets! Skip the packaged food and the bottled water. Can't take a chance on internal injuries._

Grabbing a few blankets and the flashlight, Starsky rushed back to the truck. Hutch hadn't moved. He went around the car, fighting the brush that would completely cover the truck in a few months. He opened the driver's side door and lifted Hutch's feet to the seat. He noticed the shoeless foot and wondered if it, or his ankle, could be broken. It didn't look swollen, but he would keep an eye on it.

"You need to wake up," Starsky said loudly, trying to keep his voice gentle. He slid into the cab, next to Hutch's legs.

He folded Hutch's arms across his stomach, careful of the open wound. He then unfolded one of the blankets, draping it across Hutch's legs and feet then tucking it under. The second blanket's edge went just under Hutch's chin and overlapped the other down to his knees.

There was just enough room for him to sit near Hutch's waist. He was getting nervous with Hutch's lack of response.

_Head injuries are bad, I need to get him conscious and keep him that way until help arrives. There's no telling what else is wrong with him!_

Starsky shone the light in Hutch's face and gently lifted one eyelid, then the other. Hutch groaned and looked away, turning his head to escape the light.

_His pupils look normal._

Hutch opened his eyes, blinking slowly. Starsky flashed the light across his face, noticing the second eye also reacted normally.

Starsky immediately relaxed a bit. He knew his knowledge of head injuries was very limited, but he did remember that normal pupils was a good sign, and Hutch looked like he was trying to come out of it. Hutch finally seemed to focus on him.

"Hey. There you are," Starsky said quietly, leaning close so Hutch could see his face. He smiled, feeling like he hadn't done so in days.

Hutch looked at him, furrowing his brow. "Stars...."

"You bet! Surprised to see me, are you?"

Hutch looked like he was trying to sort things out, and Starsky gave him a moment.

"You're in jail...." Hutch blinked again, as if he didn't trust his eyes.

"Apparently not," Starsky said with mild amusement. He put a hand on Hutch's blanket-covered chest as his partner started to move. "Don't move. Help is coming."

"Help." Hutch sighed the word, closing his eyes. "I was going for help."

"Well, you found it." Starsky kept his right hand on Hutch's middle and gently patted Hutch's face with the other. "Don't do that. You've got to stay awake. Try to stay here with me."

Hutch opened his eyes and turned his head until he was leaning into Starsky's palm. Starsky cupped his cheek, letting his thumb caress a dirty cheekbone. "Too tired to go anywhere."

"That's what you say, but the moment I turn my back, you'll be off to la-la land. Can't let you do that just yet."

Hutch swallowed thickly. "Where are we?"

"In a truck. I should've known the country boy in you was gonna come out someday. Next thing I know, you'll be taking this one home to keep. It looks like a wreck. The LTD is gonna love having a sibling."

Hutch tried to smile a little, and Starsky gave him the best return smile he could muster.

"How'd you get out?"

Starsky shrugged. "We had a little help. Pomell and his boys made a mistake after they kidnapped you."

"The papers!" Hutch gasped, then tried to sit up.

It was a mistake. He groaned loudly as Starsky pushed him back down.

"Where do you hurt?" Starsky was worried again. "Inside?"

"My head," Hutch whispered, closing his eyes. Starsky put his hand back on Hutch's face, prepared to wake him up if he started to slip off. "My arm. Bruises. My foot hurts, but not nearly as bad as my arm. But we've got to find the papers!"

Starsky started stroking Hutch's face with his thumb again. He still felt warm, but Starsky didn't think his fever was up to a dangerous level. Yet. In a moment, Hutch opened his eyes. Starsky could tell he was having trouble focusing.

"If you mean the ones hidden in the guitar case, we have 'em," Starsky continued. "Dobey finally got hold of the DA, and he and the IA guy went at it about 'jumping the gun.' I think that new IA chief is in a little bit of trouble, and Simonetti and Dryden aren't going to be in real great shape once this is over."

"How'd you find the papers?"

"Eddie found them. He let us know you were in trouble as well. What happened?"

Hutch sighed and shifted under the blanket. He brought his right hand out from under the blanket, and Starsky moved it back to his chest, outside the covering. He curled his fingers gently around Hutch's, glad when he felt the pressure returned.

"Found the papers in Cummings' guitar case," Hutch said slowly. "He left his guitar with the lady he was dating."

"Sounds like we had it figured. It had to be somewhere. Maybe this lady will be able to help us out some more. Do you remember how they got you?"

At Hutch's confused look, Starsky explained. "Pomell had two men, and we've got them on tape admitting to kidnapping you. Do you remember how they got you?"

Hutch winced, as if in embarrassment. "I was going to take the papers to Dobey. Got hit from behind. Just remember the trunk."

Starsky frowned. _How long was he out? The longer he was out, the worse it could be._

"I was afraid..." Hutch's voice seemed to fade, then he coughed and tried again. "Afraid that I'd lost them. They had the tie between Vindell and Pomell."

"I glanced at them. Pomell is in custody, Hutch, and he won't get out again. Kincaid and Dayton will crack, and we'll tie both murders to him."

"Cummings? What did he do...to be killed?"

The look of longing and loss in Hutch's eyes was like a fist around Starsky's heart. "I don't know, Hutch. There's a bunch of people back at the station working on the details. Maybe by the time you're ready to come back to work they'll have the answer."

"And you're here." There was a catch in Hutch's voice, and Starsky noticed his eyes were growing wet around the lashes. "I thought...thought I'd failed you."

Starsky realized his own eyes were tearing up at the look of raw emotion on Hutch's face. He blinked and put a smile on his face. "'Course you didn't! You got out of that car alive, didn't you? Hell, Hutch, you did me proud!"

"I meant, about losing the papers."

"Hutch, I don't give a damn about the papers. If you'd lost them, you would've found some other way to get me out of there. I know you, partner, and as long as you never give up, like today, then how could you fail me? As long as you're around to light that candle in the window, things will be fine."

Hutch looked confused again, and Starsky grew even more concerned.

_Where **are** those guys! What if he goes under and I can't get him out?_

Hutch sighed and squeezed Starsky's fingers again. "I didn't mean that."

Now it was Starsky's turn to be confused. It must have shown on his face because Hutch swallowed again and cleared his throat. "About the candle thing. You...want a party...I'll throw you one. Won't even make you...chip in...your share."

Starsky felt a grin threaten to split his face, and he patted Hutch's gently. "You sweet talker. Always knew you had a thing for me. It's why I've stuck around so long; you can't stay mad."

Hutch's eyes turned serious. "Shouldn't've been mad."

"You had the right," Starsky said, sensing the guilt he'd felt that night resurface. "I shouldn't have gone there, Hutch. It was between you and Cummings. I should've stayed out of it."

Hutch studied his face for a moment. "You think he wouldn't have been killed...if you hadn't gone there?"

Starsky looked down, unable to meet Hutch's eyes. "I don't know. What if Pomell or his men saw me go in? If they saw a cop going in to meet with him...."

Hutch moved his hand, sliding his palm along Starsky's until their thumbs locked and their fingers curled around each other's hand. His eyes drifted closed. "If true...you couldn't have...known."

He could see Hutch was getting too tired to talk anymore. Just as he was about to drag out some old jokes, anything to keep Hutch awake, Starsky thought he heard the sound of a motor.

"Hold on, Hutch, help is almost here." He gently untangled himself and went back to the jeep. He could hear the car coming closer. Leaning in, he started laying on the horn. A horn beeped back at him.

"Get ready to roll!" Starsky yelled happily at Hutch. "Time to get you cleaned up and on your way home!"

 

***

 

Hutch sighed lazily, finally having gotten a couple of hours' sleep. The hospital bed was clean and soft, the IV was giving him what fluids and antibiotics he needed, and his head and arm didn't ache as much as they had before. Pretty soon it should be dinner time, and this time he didn't care what they brought him. He was going to do his damnedest to eat it all. His door had been left open, and Hutch smiled as Starsky peeked around the corner.

"You decent?"

"Don't have a respectable bone in my body."

"Then you're back to normal," Starsky said, looking around the room as he entered, carrying a jacket under his arm, and a small potted plant in his other hand. "Hey, I see someone else found out you're here. This one is from Minnie. You stay here much longer, and you'll be able to stock up the greenhouse."

Hutch groaned. "One more day is enough. They say I can go home tomorrow night if my fever goes away and I don't show any signs of trouble. I'll be on leave for a couple of weeks, though."

"I can handle that. How's the head?" Starsky set his jacket and the plant on the small table and came to the left-hand side of the bed. He looked at, but didn't touch, the bandage Hutch wore. "They said you were lucky you didn't end up with a concussion, or a fractured skull. That river water wasn't the best stuff to swallow, or inhale, so it's no wonder you got sick. Got enough stitches, though."

" _Any_ stitches are too many," Hutch grumbled. He held up his left arm that was wrapped from wrist to elbow, which was why his IV was in his right arm. "They said I was lucky that it wasn't too deep. I'm going to have a hell of scar, though. And I feel like a mummy. How am I going to eat like this? I hate moving the IV arm."

"Don't worry," Starsky said brightly. "I'll help feed you."

"Which is what I was worrying about." Hutch finally realized Starsky was looking a little too happy for the occasion. "What's up?"

"Kincaid broke. Told us the whole story. When he started talking, Dayton got angry and gave us his side, and they've been talking ever since. Pomell may never say a word, but he's gonna have a hard time making bail. He's in for a fun trial."

"Yeah? What's the story?"

Starsky pulled a chair closer to the bed. "Pomell and Vindell started a company in San Francisco, so they could buy property in Bay City without their names showing up. That was the contract Cummings had."

"So, Vindell didn't want the others on the Zoning Commission to accuse him of conflict of interest, right? He's not supposed to help make decisions on zoning property he was intending to purchase. So, he used the assumed name and the secret bank account to move the money back and forth for the purchases."

"Right. Vindell was on the Zoning Commission, and his agreement with Pomell was to push for the recommendation to deny all further re-zoning of the city for adult entertainment. He — "

"Wait, wait," Hutch said, carefully pushing himself to a sitting position. "Why would they want to stop more adult business? Royal Court was full of those places already; wouldn't they want to branch out?"

"Not branch out, but stop all new competition and sell out. Now sit still and let me finish." Starsky settled back, getting comfortable. "Over the last few years, Pomell and Vindell, through this company, have been buying as many businesses as they could in areas where porn was allowed. Didn't matter what they were, restaurants, diners, pawnshops...whatever _wasn't_ porn related. They had another guy running around, doing just that.

"So, when the city got fed up with all the porn shops going in, they'd stop allowing any new areas to develop, and the property _in_ the zoned areas would go way up in price."

"Ah," Hutch said, seeing the big picture. "All of a sudden, those old failing places they bought out would be worth a lot of money to the big guys. Bet they had some buyers lined up already."

Starsky nodded. "Some of those big bad, heavy rollers from Vegas are always looking to branch out. But everyone's been keeping an eye on them, blocking them from moving in. Pomell and Vindell planned on selling them the businesses, under various assumed names, so the Feds, and us, wouldn't realize that the mob actually owned whole blocks of town. Legally. Then, once they rip out the old stuff, they open new X-rated businesses in them, and before you know it, only one or two bosses would own all the adult stuff in town. Any new competition wouldn't have any place to go, because the city wouldn't open any more spots for them, and the old ones were taken."

Hutch sighed. "And Cummings?"

Starsky was quiet for a moment, then continued, his voice solemn. "They say he was a musician who drifted in, Hutch. He put out some feelers with Pomell, hinting he was looking for some retirement money. Pomell needed to buy the Tripoli from Mrs. Reighter, but didn't want to wait until the theater actually went bankrupt. So he hired Cummings to woo Mrs. Reighter, which is where the list of her likes and dislikes came from.

"He was supposed to get her to put the theater up for sale, so they could run off together. Somehow, they don't know how, he found the papers in Pomell's office...and...."

"Go on, Starsky. It's okay," Hutch prodded gently.

"He tried to blackmail Pomell. He wanted more than the couple of thousand they'd promised him once she signed the papers."

They shared a long silence.

"It wasn't anything you did." Hutch knew Starsky still felt guilty about that night. "They didn't kill him because they saw you go into his hotel room. They were already after him."

"They didn't know who I was," Starsky admitted. "Pomell knew us by sight, but Dayton and Kincaid weren't there that night. And they never even knew you talked to Cummings. And he damn sure didn't tell them about having a cop for a son."

"You were arrested because your timing stunk."

"Big time," Starsky admitted. "They saw me leave, then broke in on Cummings." Starsky paused, looking even more uncomfortable. "They were supposed to get the papers, but killed him after he'd handed over a key to a bus locker. He was probably trying to buy time by misdirecting them, but it backfired. They checked the bus station, then realized they didn't know where he'd stashed the papers, but he was dead."

Hutch tried to block the image of Cummings' killing out of his mind. "What about Vindell? Why'd they kill him?"

"He was getting cold feet and wanted Pomell to buy him out. He and Pomell had a huge argument about it. Since Pomell had most of his money tied up in escrow for various places they were buying under the company name, he had nothing to pay Vindell off with. He was afraid Vindell was going to blow the whole set-up. Pomell arranged to meet Vindell at that other bar. Dayton and Kincaid jumped him after the bar closed."

"Who actually killed him?"

Starsky shook his head. "Dayton and Kincaid are both blaming each other. I don't know if we'll ever know for sure. For either victim."

Hutch closed his eyes, filled with sadness at the loss of Cummings.

"I think he wanted to retire, Hutch," Starsky said softly. "Maybe he really did want to get to know you and settle in the area."

"Or take the blackmail money and run."

"He did send the letter. That wasn't part of the scam."

Hutch remembered that first night, when Cummings had seemed nervous about being seen with him. "Somehow, for some reason, he changed his mind about me. Maybe he realized what kind of trouble he was in and didn't want me to make it worse."

"Or he wanted to protect you."

Hutch turned to look at Starsky, frowning. "You don't have to try so hard, you know. Whatever his reasons were, I'm not going to feel any better about him."

Starsky looked embarrassed. He nodded. "Okay. You're right."

Hutch tried his best to give Starsky a smile. "But...thanks, anyway. I know you're trying to help. Just like your reasons for seeing Cummings that night. I know you meant well."

Starsky squirmed. "If you need to know — "

"No. Thanks." Hutch had already decided he didn't want to know what had been said between Starsky and Cummings. "If it'd been good news, you would've come over and told me. You only try to keep bad news from me, when you think you can get away with it. I can imagine it was just more of the same."

Starsky stood and pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. "I found a picture with your name on it. If you want it back..."

Stunned, Hutch held out his hand and Starsky gave him the picture of Cummings and his mother. It had obviously gotten wet, and the paper was now very brittle, but Hutch could still see his parents as they were when they first met.

_I guess I'll have to be happy with this. I've got my mom, my sister, my dad, and Starsky. A lot of people don't have it so good._

"I thought I'd lost it."

"I found it in the river. They tossed in your gun and probably your badge, except no one's found it yet. I knew that's where they must have — "

"You thought I was dead," Hutch said, realizing how hard that time must have been for Starsky.

"A part of me," Starsky admitted with a small smile. "But not the biggest part. You're like one of those Phoenix's in mythology. You're always managing to pull your ass out of the fire."

"I'm sorry about that."

"Wasn't your fault. You did your best."

Hutch grinned at him. "And you did yours. Guess if it works, we ought to stick to it."

"Especially when it causes Simonetti so much grief," Starsky said with more than a hint of smugness.

"He get his, did he?" Hutch asked. He couldn't help but hope he had.

"Both he and Dryden are on suspension until further notice, while the chief and the DA discuss possible "abuse of power" issues with the new head of IA. The new guy let Simonetti go ahead with the arrest, even before they talked to me or did any further investigating. He was anxious to make a quick name for himself. As for Simonetti and Dryden...well, I think they figured payback was looking pretty good for the black mark we gave them when you refused to play along and be guilty when Vanessa got killed."

"I'd be happier if they'd get the boot," Hutch said, remembering how quickly and easily they had judged him in the past, and how they had practically pounced on Starsky. "But at this rate, they'll be demoted before they ever get promoted. I'll bet their parents are proud," he said as sarcastically as he could.

"And speaking of parents..." Starsky leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his face growing serious. "Have you called yours yet?"

Hutch leaned back onto the bed, a wave of weariness sweeping over him at the reminder. "No, not yet. I will tonight, when I know Mom and Dad should both be home. This isn't the sort of news I want my mother to hear without Dad with her. I don't know how she's going to take it."

Starsky nodded. "Sounds like a good idea. I know it'll probably be a shock to her, after all these years, but it'll come as a bigger shock if you keep it from her and she finds out some other way."

Hutch closed his eyes, remembering what Cummings looked like. _Can I ever separate him from what he did? Will I ever know who he really was? Do I want to?_ "Did you talk to Dobey?"

Starsky's voice was soft and sympathetic. "Yeah, and he says there shouldn't be any problem releasing the body to you, once you get well enough to make the burial plans and funeral arrangements. He says he'll vouch for your relationship, so you'll just have to sign a few papers. And...Hutch? Dobey gave me something else for you. It was Cummings', and Dobey thought you might like to have it."

Hutch opened his eyes in surprise. _All he had left was that guitar case. Even his guitar is gone._

Starsky went to the small table, his back blocking Hutch's view. When he came to Hutch's bedside, he handed him a leather book.

"What's this?"

"I saw it in Cummings' room that night. It was taken in with the other items there. They hadn't even gotten around to looking at it when Dayton and Kincaid started talking. Dobey said, as the only known next of kin, you should have it."

Hutch opened the book, holding it awkwardly, feeling the leather was soft with age. Inside, through most of the book, was Cummings' handwriting. It took him a moment of flipping pages to realize what he was seeing.

"These are lyrics," Hutch said in astonishment. "He not only played, but he wrote songs, too? I wonder if he ever wrote down the notes, or even sang any of these."

"I glanced through it, and he's got notes written own all over it. Bits and pieces of things. Maybe...maybe it'll tell you more about him."

Hutch closed the book, a thumb rubbing the leather. He looked at Starsky, letting the warmth he felt at the gesture show on his face. "Thanks, Starsk. I don't think I'd trade my life for anything, but I wish things had ended differently for him and me."

"So do I."

The jingling sound of a meal cart echoed down the hall, making Hutch's stomach rumble. It was time to change the subject, anyway. "Uh, you know, Starsky, there is that cute little nurse who comes in once in a while. Maybe she could help me — "

"Uh, uh," Starsky said with a smile, as he started to adjust Hutch's bed so he could sit up and eat. "I'm helping. I haven't had dinner myself, so — "

"I knew it! You're after mine."

"I wanna know you're fed so _I_ can have a leisurely dinner of my own in the cafeteria — with that cute little nurse. She's meeting me there in an hour."

Hutch sighed, but only for show. Inside he was feeling too good to care who Starsky ate dinner with.

_Well, he's not as cute as that nurse, but I think I'll keep him around._

_Who else is more family than we are?_

 

Epilogue

The wind whipped through the cemetery, diluting the growing heat of the new summer's day. It pushed gently on the mourners who stood near the casket, whisking the words of the minister away into the bright blue sky.

Hutch realized he wasn't even listening, his mind on his mother, who stood next to him, her hand in his. His father, Donald Hutchinson, stood to her left, his arm around her waist. Her hand felt warm and comforting in his, and Hutch wondered how she was holding up.

He knew the news had come as a shock to his mother. She had been silent over the phone after he told her of Cummings' death. His father had stepped in, asking the questions his mother couldn't bring herself to ask. It had been awkward, and Hutch suspected it was his father's idea to fly out for the funeral. At first, he wasn't sure he was ready to face them, but as soon as they had gotten off the plane, he was in their arms.

The casket had been opened at the funeral, and Hutch had found himself standing with his mother, looking at Cummings and trying to see his own past in his face. After a moment, his mother had looked at Hutch, a dull pain in her eyes. She had whispered to him before she turned to sit beside her husband, echoing Hutch's feelings.

"I don't know him," she'd said.

_Neither do I. Has anyone?_

Across the casket from him now, Mrs. Reighter stood silently, only moving to dab at her eyes once in a while. Next to her stood Dobey, and beside him, Starsky.

_Mrs. Reighter mourns him, but does she even wonder who he really was? She knows the truth, how can she not? All his life on the road, all the people he must have known, and yet who is here because they really knew and loved him?_

The minister finished and came around to talk to the mourners. Hutch shook his hand and thanked him for the service on such short notice. Dobey gave Hutch his sympathies and walked Mrs. Reighter to her car. Starsky followed Hutch and his parents, as they slowly walked to their car.

"You said you needed to get back right away," Hutch said to his parents, wanting to break the awkward silence that had fallen between them.

"Actually, Ken," Donald said, putting his hand on Hutch's shoulder. Not as tall as Hutch and with dark hair, their builds weren't so dissimilar that they couldn't have been related. Donald's eyes searched Hutch's face. "I've managed to find someone to cover for me. I thought maybe your mother and I would stay and visit, since you've got the rest of the week off. If you'd like us to, that is."

Hutch looked up and saw his father's smile. He felt a sudden warmth spread through him and returned the smile. "Of course, I want you to!"

"Good. It'll give us a chance to catch up." Barbara stopped and smiled slightly at the three men with her. Petite, she could make Hutch feel like a naughty boy with a stern look from those deep blue eyes. She gave Hutch's wounded arm a pointed look. "It's been a while since I've had someone to mother, so I can get back into practice this week. But right now..." She gave her husband and Hutch a stern look. "I'd like Dave to walk me to the car, please. You two need to talk. Now."

Hutch traded surprised looks with Starsky, who shrugged slightly.

"Ma'am, I'd be happy to walk you to the car." Starsky offered his arm, and the two of them walked away.

Hutch turned to look at Donald, who looked a bit sheepish and embarrassed. "We had a talk on the plane, and it means a lot to your mother that I tell you certain things."

"I guess it does. She looked pretty determined," Hutch admitted with an uncertain laugh. He could tell Donald was feeling uncomfortable, and wondered what he was about to say. They hadn't been on the best terms through these last years, with Donald insisting Hutch quit his job, and Hutch just as insistent he wouldn't. Hutch hoped it wasn't going to once again be about his coming back to Duluth.

Donald turned away, and Hutch followed him a short distance until Donald stopped, turned, and took a deep breath before looking Hutch straight in the eye. "I guess this whole thing, Cummings coming back into the picture, has really come at us all out of the blue, and it shouldn't have."

Donald held up a hand when Hutch started to reply. "Please, let me get this out, Ken. I know I've always told you it didn't matter to me that you weren't my son, but I have to admit that in my weakness, I did let it matter."

Hutch drew in a breath, stunned at the frankness of the words. His stomach tightened at what he could only imagine he was going to hear.

"I love your sister, Ken. A man couldn't ask for a better daughter. I love her dearly, but..." Donald paused, and Hutch could see the look of embarrassment and sorrow on his face. Donald's voice grew thick, and his eyes soft. "Sometimes...I'm afraid I've loved you just a bit more. You've always scared me."

"Scared you?" Hutch was astonished. "I don't understand."

"I know, but we...I...think it's important for you to hear why." Donald took a deep breath. "I was jealous of your father, and I always have been. The thought that he could come in at any time and take your love away from me — "

"He couldn't do that!" Hutch protested, putting a hand on Donald's arm. He could see the anguish in the older man's eyes. "You're the only father I've ever had."

"It's never been about anything you've done, Ken. Cummings has always been a ghost in the background, because I've let him be one. I know your mother loves me, and her love for him had dulled then disappeared by the time you were born. When your mother returned to Duluth with you in tow, you were only about six weeks old. I'd always had a crush on her from a distance, and I knew as soon as I heard about you that it didn't matter that Barbara and Cummings had never been married. I wooed her and saw for myself that when we married she truly loved me." Donald shrugged and gave Hutch a sheepish smile. "But she wasn't the only one I fell in love with."

Donald placed his hand over Hutch's, giving it a squeeze. "I fell in love with a six-week-old baby boy who looked just like his mother. Once I held you, you _had_ to be my son. It was my decision, not your  mother's, that you weren't told about your real father. It was my pushing you as a teenager to go directions you didn't want to go, that was my way of trying to tie you into the family business. If Cummings ever came back for you, you'd be so much a part of me and my life that you couldn't leave." Donald, eyes bright with unshed tears, struggled to get the rest out through a tight throat. "And I'm sorry it's put this distance between us."

A wave of warmth washed through Hutch at Donald's words, making his own eyes damp. He pulled Donald into a bear hug, holding tight as his father returned the embrace.

"Don't be sorry," Hutch whispered. "I love you, Dad. But whatever disagreements we've had in the past weren't because I was waiting for Cummings to come back. It wouldn't have changed _us_. We've both just been too stubborn and pig-headed when it comes to getting our own way. I got that from you, you know."

They both chuckled at the comment, then pulled away slightly so Hutch could see the relief in Donald's eyes.

"I wish I could have had it out with him, though," Donald admitted with a sigh. He turned and started walking slowly to their cars. "He hurt your mother so much, which I've done my best to help heal. But I've always been afraid that I couldn't help you with your hurt. I've been jealous of him all these years because he produced you and I didn't."

"I would have liked to have met him at a better time," Hutch admitted as they walked side by side. "But he would never have replaced you. He lost that chance before I was even born. I think maybe he was starting to regret things in his life when he sent me that letter. He found he had a son to contact, but that's not the same as having a family. He'd lost out on being a lot of things, Dad, and I think he was starting to realize that. I want you to read this."

Hutch took the leather book out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Donald. "It was Cummings'. Found in his room. He wrote some notes, but mostly lyrics. I've marked the last entry he made."

Donald opened it uncertainly. Hutch watched as his face grew solemn. He had memorized the entry, despite himself.

_The forks in the road_ ,  
Between having or lost,  
Each one a decision,  
That comes with a cost.

_Loner or lover_ ,  
I want to choose love,  
To find that one place,  
To be a part of.

_But when the wind calls and the day slips to grey_ ,  
I hear all the voices,  
That call me away.

_One more night on the road_ ,  
One more mile left behind.  
Another who's touched me,  
Forever denied.

_The world, it grows colder_ ,  
The loner's alone,  
With no one to cling to,  
No way to go home.

"I think you're right. He did realize what he had lost. Maybe...maybe he would have even been good for you." Donald carefully handed the book to Hutch and turned to glance back at the burial site. "I'm sorry for you both, Ken. You both should have had a chance to discover who you were."

Hutch laid an arm around Donald's shoulders. "Like a friend of mine told me...knowing Cummings wouldn't have changed who I am. Or who I love."

Donald stopped and turned toward him, examining his face. "I know you're a cop, Ken, and I have to admit it scares me. You take your life in your hands every day, and I don't know a father who wouldn't be scared by that. But when...if...you decide the time has come for a quieter life, you know that family position in the company is waiting, right, son?"

Hutch smiled. "Yeah, I know. Maybe. Someday. You'll be the first to know."

"The first?" Donald smiled, then chuckled. "I have a feeling Dave would be the first to hear that kind of news. He's a good man, and I'm glad he's got your back. There's always an opening for him, too. When you're both ready, if you ever want it."

"I'll tell him," Hutch said, warmed by the fact that Donald knew him well enough to understand Starsky was family as well. "I'll tell him he's being adopted."

Donald laughed. "You do that. And, Ken?"

"Yes?"

"Let's get your sister on the phone tonight. I think your mother and I need the family together again, even if it's long distance."

"Sounds good, Dad. Let's go get something to eat, then you can follow me home."

"Good. Make it someplace colorful. I think we need something festive." At the road now, Donald turned toward his rented car. "Lead the way!"

Hutch saw the look of concern Starsky gave him as he slid into the Torino.

"Things okay?" Starsky asked.

"I'm with family." Hutch smiled. "Couldn't be better. Now, let's go to Huggy's place for lunch. I think it's time we introduced my dad to inner-city gaming. Between him betting on my having a handicap with this bandaged arm, and you playing innocent about playing left-handed pool, we just may be able to initiate my dad to the way my world works."

"Ahh..." Starsky smiled and turned on the engine. "An easy mark! Sounds like fun. And while he's trying to get his money back, your mom can tell me some more of those stories about you as a kid."

"What stories?" Hutch asked, a little concerned about what Starsky might have heard.

"Oh, don't worry." Starsky turned to give him a quick wink and a wicked grin. "She didn't tell me the one about you, the church nursery-school attendant whose back was turned, and the first two-year-old streaker ever seen toddling down the center isle during Easter service."

Hutch groaned, feeling the flush of embarrassment already. "Oh. _Good._ As long as she didn't tell you _that_ one."

Starsky laughed throatily, and Hutch found himself smiling around his blush. It promised to be an interesting week.

 

The End


End file.
